


Dear Amelia

by orphan_account



Category: letsplay, markiplier - Fandom, youtube - Fandom
Genre: F/M, Markiplier - Freeform, markiplier chaptered, markiplier x ofc
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-17
Updated: 2016-08-19
Packaged: 2018-08-09 09:08:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 36,534
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7795780
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Amelia is a wayward bookstore manager who is being pressured by her loved ones to finally get a boyfriend after a year and a half of living a life of stained sweatpants, Lean Cuisines, and photoshoots with her cat (her actual cat, you naughties). And, whether she likes it or not, she's beginning to agree with her best friend Rebecca and her overbearing mother. She's not one to force anything, though - she'd like the universe to do its job and miraculously place the man of her dreams right in front of her, just like in the movies. That, or she's endlessly lazy and has no motivation to put herself out there again.</p><p>Mark has a following of nine million and counting on YouTube. He's been single for a while, too, but is definitely okay with that. He has his friends, he has his family, and he has his fans. He's not lonely, that's for sure. He doesn't look at this best friends with their beautiful wives and fiancees and wish for that kind of life. He doesn't want anyone to cuddle up to in the middle of the night, no sir. He's just fine with his life the way it is, thank you very much. But who is he kidding? He's lonely as all hell and wants a ladyfriend to enjoy the simple pleasures of life with. Let's get real.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“It’s not like I’m trying to ward anyone off. I think I just give off that vibe,” I mutter to my best friend, Rebecca. Shrugging, I swirl the ice around in my drink. It’s weaker than usual, which sucks, because they cost about $8 a piece.

“I mean, kind of,” Rebecca laughs. “You’re not the most approachable person.”

“Everyone always says that they thought I was a bitch before they actually got to know me,” I explain. “I can’t help my Resting Bitch Face. It’s chronic.”

“Well,” Rebecca sighs, “can you at least try to look like you don’t want to kill everyone all the time?”

Rebecca desperately wants me to have a boyfriend. She dreams about the two of us going on double dates with our significant others, which most likely include all four of us linking arms, walking down the street, all laughing at something insignificant. Me and my boyfriend linked with Rebecca and her boyfriend. It’s probably during the fall, and we’re all wearing plaid flannels and fashionable leather boots. Leaves fall around us. Golden retrievers run past. It’s a great time. Like one of those pictures that comes with the frame when you buy it.

She’s got delusions of grandeur, this one.

“No,” I say with my mouth full of spinach and artichoke dip. “I can’t.”

“Okay, seriously?” Rebecca turns her face in an effort to shield her gaze from my mouth. “This is why you’re single, Amelia. You are a thirteen year old boy in a twenty-six year old woman’s body.”

I swallow the remaining food in my mouth. “Yeah, but like,” flipping my hair across my shoulder, I wink at my best friend, “at least I’m a cute thirteen year old boy.”

Rebecca rolls her eyes and motions to our waitress that she’d like another drink. I don’t blame her.

It’s not easy being my friend, I guess. Rebecca does have a point about the thirteen year old part – I do have the humor of a pubescent boy, and most likely the table manners, too. It’s not like I don’t have an appreciation for dry, high-brow comedy. I watch Jon Stewart, Bill Maher, and Louis CK as much as I watch Cartoon Network. And honestly, fart jokes will never get old. As far as the table manners – I know how to behave in public. I just get a kick out of grossing my friends out by talking with my mouth full. And if I don’t find hilarity in the fact that I spill at least one food item on myself per day, who will? This brings us back to the thirteen year old humor part.

And, if I’m being truthful about the whole thing, I wouldn’t mind having a boyfriend. Who would mind having a boyfriend? Holding hands, back massages, nights on the couch watching Netflix…regular sex is always a nice perk of being in a relationship, too. But really, I’m looking for someone who can pick up the tab at a nice restaurant, go back upstairs for me when I’ve forgotten something, and to answer all of the questions my family is bound to ask without breaking a sweat. That’s the true test of a good boyfriend, is it not?

But how does anyone know when they’re ready to date again after a bad relationship and breakup? Granted, it has been a year and a half since my last serious relationship ended. I know I need to put myself out there again, but it’s just so tiring. It’s almost like you’re a warbler in the wild, showing off your best qualities in order to snatch up a partner, dancing and singing and looking all fancy with your colorful feathers and elaborate nests. When really, you know the disgusting troll that you are deep down inside and you would never be able to create any type of relationship if you let your true colors show first thing.

The pomp and circumstance is what I can’t stand. I enjoy flirting and making out just as much as the next person, but it’s the build-up that deters me. Wondering if you’re saying the right things, waiting five minutes to text back so he doesn’t think you’re too desperate, putting things on your Snapchat story that make you seem like the most interesting person in the world…it’s almost not worth it. And, to be frank: spontaneous hookups are great, but only if you don’t have any stubble, and having to shave more than once a week is exhausting. If you don’t agree, you’re a liar.

“Maybe I can get Matt to set you up with one of his friends from the office,” Rebecca probes as she switches her straw from her old drink to her fresh one. “He’s always talking about how they want him to go out and be their wingman.”

“No, no, no,” I shake my head vigorously. “The last time you had Matt set me up with someone, I couldn’t look a man straight in the eyes for a week afterwards. Every time the bell on the door at work rang, I panicked and hope that it wasn’t Randall coming in for Round Two.”

“Okay, Randall was a mistake,” she chortled. “But there are plenty of single guys at Matt’s job!”

“I don’t want to date someone who plans to have a wingman.” I rolled my eyes. “And I definitely don’t want to date an insurance salesman. They’re all boring, stuffy people who take themselves way too seriously.”

Rebecca gave me an ice-cold stare. “You do realize that Matt is an insurance salesman.”

I laughed, brushing off her venomous gaze. “Yes,” I scoffed. “Of course I realize that. But I also realize that Matt is the outlier in this situation.”

“Sure.” Rebecca slowly nodded her head and puckered her lips, as if she didn’t believe a word I was saying. “Keep it up you’ll be single for life.”

“Y’know what? Maybe I will be, and maybe that’s okay! Dating is horrible. Dating is the WORST! I hate putting effort into finding someone, just to have it not work out two weeks later because of some dumb fucking reason or another. And I’m sick of bad kissers! I hate bad kissers!” I whisper-shouted, violently dipping a piece of pita bread into the green, gooey dip in front of us.

“You have to kiss a few frogs before you get the prince.”

“Don’t give me that bullshit, woman!” I was less whisper-shouting and more shouting, at this point.

“Seriously! Don’t you remember how many awful guys I dated before Matt?”

“Okay, stop trying to make me feel better about my pathetic situation,” I shoved another piece of pita into my mouth. I tend to stress-eat. It’s not a problem, so long as I ignore it altogether.

“You’re not pathetic,” Rebecca puts a soft hand on my forearm, looking at me with her huge-ass eyes. People say that eyes are the windows to your soul, right? Well, if that’s true, Rebecca’s soul is fucking enormous.

“For the record, I didn’t say that I, myself, am pathetic. I said that my situation is pathetic.” I swatted her arm off of me, not wanting to be consoled by someone who had literally nothing wrong in her life. The bitch.

“Okay, well, let’s be brutally honest about your situation, then.”

“Let’s,” I smiled widely, blinking my eyes in rapid succession.

“Stop,” she glared at me like my own mother would.

“Pardon me if I’m not eager to talk about my long list of failures during what I thought would be a nice, relaxing lunch with my best friend.”

“I’m just trying to help you!”

“Well, hurry up. I’ve got to get back to the shop in ten minutes.”

Rebecca started to tick off my problems on her perfectly-manicured fingers. Her crater-sized engagement ring sparkled in the sun, nearly blinding every man, woman, and child within a ten-mile radius.

“Number one, you don’t have a college degree,” she counted on her pointer finger. “You live in a small-ass apartment.” Middle finger. “You’re not salary.” Ring finger. “You’re in love with your cat.” Pinky finger. “You rank books higher than most people.” Thumb.

“Okay, before you run out of fingers, stop.” I lifted both hands in front of my face. “I get it. I don’t have a degree, but I have half of one. I don’t need one for the job I’m at now, and I want to do this job for the rest of my life. And yeah, okay, I’m not salary, but I’m the boss, and that’s pretty damn good. I love my apartment, and my cat, and my books. So what?”

“But your twenties are more than halfway over, Mimi,” she consoles me with the use of my childhood nickname, but it doesn’t ease the blow of what she just pointed out.

“I like my life, Rebecca,” I spit back as I fish for a twenty-dollar bill in my wallet. “Everyone else seems to have a problem with it, but I don’t. And that’s all that matters, okay? The only goddamn person who needs to be concerned with how my life is going is ME. I’m sick of you turning every conversation we have into some self-help session for Amelia. Amelia DOESN’T NEED HELP!”

I’m more disappointed in myself for using third-person than I am for yelling at my best friend in public.

I throw the twenty down on the table and sling my purse over my shoulder. I have trouble getting out of the patio chair, considering that we’re in Los Angeles, outside, during the summer, and I’m wearing shorts. I can feel the pattern of the wrought-iron chair imprinted on the back of my thighs as I stand up. Knocking my hip on the corner of the table as I depart, I bite my lip in order to keep from screaming out in pain. And before anyone chalks this up to day drinking, which obviously I shouldn’t be doing on my lunch break while I’m working, it’s totally not the alcohol that causes me to stumble. But, we all have our demons, now don’t we?

“Maybe the reason why I love my cat and my books more than most humans is because neither of those things makes me feel like shit whenever I’m around them,” I say before I leave, wanting to get the last word in.

“C’mon, you know I’m just trying to help,” Rebecca reaches out to me as I shove in my chair.

“I don’t need your help,” I slide my sunglasses on my face and turn around, searching for the exit so I can make my getaway before Rebecca can notice the tears pooling in my eyes.

As I make my way back to the bookstore, I try to organize my thoughts. I can’t take my negativity back with me. I learned about the practice of mindfulness after my relationship with Ben, my ex-boyfriend, ended. By allowing myself to breathe and reevaluate the situation as an outsider, I can then calm my nerves and assure myself that I will be okay.

But as I sit at the counter of the bookstore, with my nametag digging into the crook of my arm, I can’t help but wonder if what Rebecca said was true. I mean, it’s all definitely true, but how bad is it? If I’m happy with my life, truly happy, does it matter that I don’t have a four-year degree, even if I have a full-time job that I love? Does it matter that I’m still working an hourly wage, even though I’m the manager? Does it matter that my apartment is small, even though it’s the perfect size for me? Does it matter that I love my cat and my books more than most people, even though they make me feel the best? (Okay, maybe that one matters, but still).

I dangle my feet off of the stool I’m perched upon, sighing to myself. It’s a slow day today, but not many people are interested in buying or selling literature at 2pm on a Tuesday. I begin to pick at the nail polish on my fingernails, even though I just painted them last night. In order to stop myself, I open the book I’m currently making my way through – A Little Life by Hanya Yanagihara.

I’m unaware of how much time has passed by the time my third customer of the day walks through the door. I glance up from my book and make eye contact with him briefly before giving him a quiet “Hello,” and a smile.

“Hello,” he nods. His voice is much deeper than I anticipated.

“Is there anything I can help you find today?”

“No, I’m just browsing. Thought I’d stop in. Never been here before,” he stuffs his hands in his pockets and looks around at the tall stacks of books that litter the displays and shelves around the store.

“Books are sorted by genre and used books are all the way back and to the right,” I point towards the back of the store and flick my wrist to the right.

“Thanks,” he smiles, and heads towards science-fiction.

I observe him quietly as he peruses the shelves. He’s not all that tall by standards that don’t apply to people like me – I barely reach five-foot-two on a good day. His hair is disheveled in a way that assumes he didn’t even bother to run his fingers through it when he got up this morning, but it looks good on him. I can’t immediately pinpoint his ethnicity, although I think he has some sort of Asian within his bloodline. Maybe Hawaiian?

He’s intriguing, nonetheless. Intriguing enough for me to look at him for much longer than is considered normal. As he bends down to study the books on the bottom shelf, he glances up at me, which causes me to hastily avert my eyes back down to my own book. I smirk at myself, knowing how ridiculous I am for trying to make it seem like I wasn’t just staring at him.

I tap my heel on one of the legs of the stool I’m perched upon, telling myself not to look up at my customer again. From what I gathered, he’s a good dresser. Fashionable high-top sneakers, dark-washed jeans, a graphic t-shirt that I’m sure is from a TV show I’m too lazy to begin to watch…I can’t help but wonder what other clothes he has in his closet. Would they fit me? And then I stop tapping my heel on the legs of the stool I’m perched upon so I can properly beat myself up mentally for thinking such a thing.

Maybe Rebecca’s got a point. Maybe I do spend too much time with my cat. Alone. Binge-watching Law & Order. With no pants on. In the dark.

“Have you read this before?” the man asks. I look up from my book to see him holding up a hard-cover of The Martian by Andy Weir.

“Yeah,” I respond. “I really liked it, but a lot of people found it to be too technical. The main character is basically a genius, so sometimes it can be hard to follow his train of thought, but I was okay with it.”

“Isn’t a movie that’s based on it coming out soon?”

“With Matt Damon, yeah.”

“Cool,” he nods. He tucks the book under his arm and continues to peruse our stock.

I surreptitiously sneak more glances at him as he walks up and down the aisles of books. He has a content smile on his face as he reads the back covers of novels. He snickers at some of the descriptions, just loud enough for me to hear him over the lull of the radio that’s playing over the loud speakers of the store.

He seems…interesting. He’s not one of those customers who feels the need to fill the comfortable silence with meaningless conversation, which I appreciate greatly. He lets me read my book and I let him browse our selections, both of us content with not speaking to one another for the time being. Most people are under the assumption that silence is awkward, when really, as long as two people embrace it, silence can be beautiful.

“Okay, I think I’m all set,” my dark-haired customer says as he sets six books down on the counter in front of me.

“Awesome,” I mused as I hopped off of my stool. “Is there anything else I can help you find while you’re here?”

“No,” he chuckled, “I think these will keep me busy for a while.”

As I scan the books – four used, two new – I make a mental note of his choices. The Martian, along with The Road by Cormac McCarthy are the newest of the set. He’s got two used Sedaris compilations, as well as a collection of Bukowski. All of the choices meet my approval. The last book I scan catches my attention. I Know This Much is True by Wally Lamb – my favorite book – is glorious and potent in my hands. I let out an appreciative sigh.

“This is my all-time favorite book,” I provide as I place it in the canvas bag every first-time customer is given as a token of gratitude.

“Oh, cool,” he smiles. “I saw it on the shelf and it seemed so intriguing.”

“The parts that his grandfather transcribed are kind of boring, but the rest of the book is so worth it. I’ve never read a book that I’ve loved more,” I smirk as I tap the book-filled bag lovingly.

“Well then it seems like I made a wise decision,” he smiles. He’s got great teeth.

I smile back at him and somehow completely forget that I have a job to do and that he’s waiting on me to tell him his total so he can get the hell away from me, Creepy Bookstore Girl, who probably spends most of her time with her nose in a book instead of actually socializing with real human beings (which is true, but only marginally).

I slowly realize how much of a kook I’m demonstrating myself to be. My right eye twitches slightly as my brain kicks into gear, reminding me to act like I know what I’m doing – which I do, but damn, that smile.

“Sorry,” I mutter. “Your total is $42.83.”

“Wow. Much less expensive than I thought,” he nods and hands me his credit card.

“I try to price things fairly. Buying and selling used books allows us to keep our prices just underneath ‘astronomical’,” I explain.

Trying to figure out how I can get his name without being a major idiot about it by looking directly at it on his card, I get a jolt of excitement when I realize the back of his card isn’t signed. Obviously, the next logical step is to ask to see his ID. “Thanks for asking,” he says as he pulls out his driver’s license from his wallet. “You’d be surprised at how many don’t.”

“It’s against the law,” I shake my head, as though I’m some sort of law enforcement advocate. “You could sue. You should sue!”

“I don’t think I’ll take it that far,” he laughs again, only this time he throws his head back and runs his fingers through his hair like he’s some sort of everyday Adonis.

I look at his ID and notice that it looks nothing like the one I have from California. “Ohio?” I ask, almost completely forgetting to check his name. Mark E. Fischbach. Definitely part German.

“Oh, yeah,” he nods as he takes his ID from my outstretched hand. “I’ve lived in LA for the past year, but have been too lazy to get my license and registration switched.”

“Oh, okay,” I nod. So he’s a Midwest boy. Aren’t they supposed to be super amazing? Like corn-fed, beastly creatures who can identify ten different types of poisonous berry by color alone? Yet still, somehow, be romantic enough to take you on a dinner cruise after he builds you a gazebo from scratch with his bare hands?

“So, you said you try to price things fairly. Is this your shop?” Mark inquires. Apparently, in my mind, we’re on a first-name basis now.

“Oh, no, no,” I shake my head. “The owner’s name is Margaret, but she’s usually on the East Coast this time of year. I’m just the manager.”

“Well, you’ve got a really nice place here. I’ll have to come back and let you know how I liked your book,” he shoves the receipt I’ve just handed him into the canvas bag before slinging it over his shoulder.

“I’ll plan on it,” I sit back down on my stool as he heads towards the exit.

“Have a good day, Amelia,” he winks as the bells above the door chime, indicating his departure.

“You too, Mark,” I whisper, because I don’t yet know if it’s acceptable for me to admit I know his name. Mine’s plastered across my left boob in the most annoying way possible. There’s a legitimate reason, other than simple curiosity, as to why he knows my name.

I hum to myself as I open my book to the page I left off on. For the rest of the day, until closing at 9pm, I can’t even make it through the page. My mind is too busy with thoughts of Mark to concentrate on anything else.

And in that moment, I know, that I am royally fucked.


	2. Chapter Two

There’s something sumptuous about lying in bed on a Sunday morning with the windows open, a fresh cup of coffee in my right hand, and a page-turner in my left. Of course, my cat Atticus is laying at my feet, curled up in the shape of a donut, completely content with the current situation.

I reserve Sunday mornings for myself. I have my most-trusted employee open the shop so I can sleep in and enjoy the morning, rather than wake up early to meet the influx of early-risers we can usually expect on a Sunday. It’s not that I don’t love my regulars – mostly made up of a demographic of silver-haired senior citizens who fly through books at the speed of light – but I open the store every other day of the week. I need Sunday mornings to recharge my batteries.

My phone buzzes on my bedside table. Glancing over, I can see that it’s Rebecca. With it being 9am on a Sunday, I’m surprised she’s not hosting a brunch for her soon-to-be in-laws, gathering fresh summer fruit at a local (but trendy) farmer’s market, or having the kind of sex only couples who’ve been together for years have. I set my coffee down on my nightstand so I can read her text.

**_lover boy show up yet?_ **

Okay, okay. I told Rebecca about Mark. At the time, I wanted to prove myself to her after my blow-up on Tuesday. See? I CAN meet interesting guys at my job that doesn’t pay me salary!!! But now, it just seems too contrived and mostly creepy. I talked to the guy for all of what, two minutes? The rest of the time I was staring at him and thinking about trying on his clothes.

_It’s been four days._

**_yeah, and???_**       

_It took me a solid week and a half to read that book from cover to cover._

**_ok maybe hes a fast reader…he could come in today?_ **

Possibly. I’m not getting my hopes up.

_**whatever you do, DO NOT wear that baby-puke color shirt with the flowers on it.** _

_Umm, I like that shirt. Bitch._

**_yeah but it doesnt do you any favors. text me if he shows. gotta head to matts parents for brunch. kill me now._ **

_Ahh, brunch with the in-laws, once again. It’s like being pecked to death by a duck, but slower._

**_you are literally the weirdest person in the world._ **

_Yeah, but at least I don’t have to “brunch” with people who make me want scratch my eyeballs out. ;)_

She doesn’t text back after that. I set my phone down, grab my coffee, and snuggle back down into my blankets. I stare out the window that’s directly across from my bed, imagining different scenarios that could play out during the course of today.

Is it weird that I felt drawn to Mark in such a way that I imagined how his clothes would fit on me? I mean, seriously? Of course it’s weird. But isn’t it natural? For women, at least? You see a man you find rather attractive, and suddenly you have your entire life with him planned out before he can even say hello. I’m not going to say that it’s not creepy, and I’m not even going to deny the fact that I could have some issues I need to work out on my own time. But I don’t think I should feel bad for thinking about Mark as much as I have been.

Then again, what do I know about this guy? Besides the fact that he has good taste in books and is from Ohio, next to nothing. But, in the twenty minutes he was in the store, something kept drawing me to him. His general presence put me at ease, while at the same time caused me to – for some reason – desperately want to know everything about him.

Maybe I’m giving too much weight to what Rebecca says. Mark was the first man I saw after I got into it with her, and maybe my hormones pulled the trigger in my head. **ALERT, ALERT. THIS PERSON HAS A PENIS. MARRY THIS PERSON.**

Deep down, am I really satisfied with my life? I can easily answer yes to that question, although it does feel like some part – some important part – is missing. It feels morally wrong to have that part be a man. Every piece of feminine literature I’ve read and love boasts that women do not need men. We are perfectly fine being the strong, independent females we were intended to be.

And yes, I am perfectly fine with being a strong, independent female. And no, I do not need a man. But I would like one. The time has come to propel myself back into the waters of dating, no matter how tedious or abhorrent I may find it. Does that mean I have to throw myself at the first dude I see? No, it doesn’t. Which is why it worries me that Mark pretty much hasn’t left my mind since I saw him on Tuesday.

Goddamnit, he was cute.

So motherfucking good-looking.

His voice? Never did I ever think that a voice could actually personify liquid gold as much as his.

With that hair. Jesus, that hair.

And his eyes. What color were they? Could they even be considered brown?

The son of a bitch even had the perfect amount of beard. Shit, I love beards.

While we’re at it, his ass wasn’t horrible to look at, either.

I groan and shove the blankets off of my legs and to the side. There’s no way I’ll be able to get back into reading now that I’ve conjured up these thoughts about Mark. I’ve worked myself into a near-frenzy in my mind, knowing that it’s crazy to be thinking about a man I barely know in this capacity, but doing it anyway.

After showering, getting dressed, and trying my best to look somewhat presentable, I fill a travel mug with the coffee I didn’t finish. If I can’t focus on anything while I’m at home, I might as well make it into work a couple of hours early.

Once I arrive at work, the morning rush of book lovers who’ve come to discuss their book club reads on our outdoor patio has dissipated. My “Number One”, Brandon, was perched at my usual spot behind the counter. When he saw me, he hopped off the stool and gave me a wide smile.

“Hey!” he greeted.

“Hey back!” I responded. “You can sit on the stool, y’know. It’s not like it’s mine.”

“Oh,” he sits back down, “yeah. I know.”

“How long have we been working together, Brandon? You’re my most-trusted supervisor. You can sit at the damn stool and not have to worry.”

“Well, I didn’t expect you here so early. And I know you like to sit here and watch all the magic happen,” he shrugs. “Why are you here so early, anyway? It’s only 10:30.”

“I got bored,” I explained as I locked my bag in the filing cabinet behind the register. I took a sip of my coffee and sighed. “How pathetic is that? I got bored on my one morning off, so I go into work.”

“You need a hobby,” Brandon patted my shoulder like I was some sort of child. Which, at my height, I could be considered. “Or a boyfriend. You need to get laid, is what you need to do.”

I snorted. “Getting laid isn’t going to keep me from coming into work early.”

“You sure about that?”

“Actually,” I smirk. “No.”

The remainder of the day was quite uneventful, but that’s to be expected on a Sunday. Saturdays bring us almost too many customers, but people are usually spending time with their families or reading the books we sold them the previous day on Sundays.

Every time the bell above the door chimed, my heart jumped and my gaze would dart toward the entrance. And every time, it wasn’t Mark. I would mask my disappointment with a smile and a greeting towards the customer, hoping they didn’t note the dissatisfaction on my face.

I tried to busy myself with inventory, reorganizing, and orders. I planned out the new window display for July – it was June 28th, so the front of the store needed to be changed within the next two days. I allowed Brandon to go home two hours before, so I had nobody to talk to, besides the occasional customer.

Looking at the clock on our computer system, I noted that it was only 2pm. Another three hours before I could close up and go home. To…what? The exact situation I always go home to:

Me, sitting in bed, sans pants, watching TV as I rub my cat’s belly. And what will I have for dinner? Which frozen meal should I microwave tonight?

I groaned, willing to stop attending the pity party I was currently throwing for myself. I kept going back and forth in my mind, being okay with how my life was going and then absolutely hating it. Resting my chin on my hand, I stared at the “American History” book section sign and sighed. I was worried about if I was more concerned with how people perceived me, rather than being concerned with how I perceived myself, when the bell above the door chimed.

My eyes immediately focused on the disheveled hair of the customer. My heart jumped, and I did too, when I realized who it was. I lifted my head off my hand and straightened my posture. Somehow, I couldn’t bring myself to speak first.

“Hey,” Mark’s deep voice rang out. “I was hoping you’d be working.”

I smiled as I nodded in response. “Yeah, I’m pretty much always here.”

“Well, I finished the book,” he said as he made his way to the front of the counter where I was perched.

“What’d you think?” I asked as he stopped in front of me, placing both hands on the counter. Right there, right in front of my own, which were currently splayed out in front of me. My hands seemed like a child’s in comparison to his. I wondered, for a second, how nice it’d be to lace my fingers with his.

I tried to keep my attention focused on his eyes instead of my hands as he spoke. In high school, I had acquired the awkward habit of averting my eyes and staring at my hands instead of keeping eye-contact with guys I had an interest in. For some reason, I thought it would be cuter to seem shy and meek, rather than idiosyncratic and loud, which I normally came off as.

“It was pretty much the best book I’ve read in years,” he grinned.

“Yay!” I cheered. I refrained from literally clapping my hands in excitement. There’s just something so satisfying about someone loving your book recommendation – especially if it’s your favorite book.

Mark laughed and ran a hand through his hair. I quickly looked down at my hands, more as a defense mechanism than out of habit. I didn’t want to start drooling in front of him.

“I figured it was going to take me at least a month to finish it,” he explained. “But I couldn’t put it down. I would stay up until five in the morning some nights, just plowing through this book. It was unreal. So powerful.”

“Yes,” I nodded vigorously. “Yes. That’s exactly how I felt.”

“So,” he ventured, “I was wondering. Could you recommend any more books to me? Like what should I read now that I’ve finished this?”

“The other five books haven’t kept your attention?”

“Well,” he started. “I’ll get to them eventually. But I want to read more by this Wally Lamb guy.”

“Okay!” I chimed, jumping off my stool. “Follow me,” I beckon as I walk to the front of the counter and to the “Contemporary Fiction” section. He follows me and cheerfully marches behind me, as though he’s a character in a Disney movie. It makes me laugh, which in turn, makes him laugh.

“Sorry,” he snickers heartily. “I get a little carried away when I’m excited sometimes.”

I glance behind me, grinning. “I’m the same way,” and I have to remember to breathe when he winks at me again.

I stop at the “L” portion of the section and pick out two books. “I think you should read either She’s Come Undone or The Hour I First Believed next,” I offer. He takes the books from my hands and examines the back covers. “She’s Come Undone is from the perspective of a female who grapples with mental health issues, but it’s the book that really got me into his writing. The other one is about the after-effects of Columbine.”

“So, really heavy stuff, huh?” He ponders as he weighs both books in his palms.

“Yeah,” I nod. “He writes about dysfunctional families. None of his books are very happy, but they’re all super profound.”

“If I buy both, will you think I’m a douchebag who’s just trying to impress you?” he looks at me through the hair that’s escaped to his forehead.

“Yes,” I say, staring him directly in the eyes.

He explodes with laughter that normally comes from cartoon characters and although I try to keep a straight face, it’s impossible. He holds both of the books to his chest and continues to chortle with all he’s got.

“Okay,” he calms down, breathing deep. “Then I’m going to buy both and hope that you don’t regard me as a douchebag who’s just trying to impress you, even though that might be exactly what’s going on here.”

“I was already impressed when you came in only four days after buying the book,” I slightly tilt my head to the right as he stacks both books in front of him. “So I won’t regard you as trying to impress me. Jury’s still out on the douchebag part.”

He scoffs, his mouth gaping in feigned shock. “Well then,” he gasps. “I guess I’ll just have to prove otherwise.”

“Maybe,” I raise my eyebrows and purse my lips.

“Okay, this is super out of the ordinary for me,” he begins. His face turns serious and my pulse begins to quicken. “But I finished the book so quickly because yes, it was good, and yes, it was one of the best books I’ve read in years, but…” he takes a deep breath, “I really wanted to come back so I could talk to you again.”

I feel all of the blood in my body rush to my head and my fingers start to tingle. I said nothing. I just stood there, staring at him like I was paralyzed from the nose down.

“Yep. Okay. You’re thoroughly creeped out…” Mark sighs as he begins to turn away.

“No!” I shout, probably too loud. “No! Not at all,” I say, quieter this time. “Sorry. It’s just that I really hoped you would come back too. Soon. Like even the very next day,” I cough. “Even though that was probably asking too much. But still. No, yeah. I wanted to talk to you again, too.”

“Oh,” he smirks. “Well.”

“Yeah.”

We stand in the middle of the aisle, between the Ls and the Fs, smiling at each other. Neither of us says anything or moves in the slightest for the next minute or so, and the eye contact between us isn’t awkward. The silence is comfortable. Our shared space seems right.

“So, um,” he clears his throat. “I’m going to buy these. And then I’m going to leave you my number. And then you’re going to text me, or call me. But texting is better because I never really have time for a full phone conversation.”

“Okay,’” I bite my lip and nod. I don’t know if I trust myself to say anything else.

“Okay,” he nods.

We make our way back to the counter in silence. He tears off the top-half of the receipt I give him for his purchase. He writes his number and then signs his name in all capital letters with a smiley face at the end. He slides it across the counter to me, and before he can take his hand off of the slip of paper, I touch the backs of his fingers.

“Thanks for your business,” I say in a voice so small, it doesn’t sound like my own.

He doesn’t say anything, but instead acknowledges my words with a closed-mouth smile, his eyebrows raised, his hair falling in his eyes, once again. I take my hand off of his and pocket the receipt. My heartrate hasn’t stabilized since he walked into the store ten minutes ago.

“Come back soon,” I say as he walks out the door with his books. He glances back at me and winks, once again, and pushes back his hair as he steps into the sunlight.

I grab my phone out from underneath the computer and quickly find Rebecca’s text conversation.

_He came back today and he gave me his motherfucking number. Yas, bitch, yaaaassss._


	3. Chapter Three

_Definitely not what I expected, but it’s very admirable. :)_ I type and press send as I make my way up the stairs to my apartment, my mail, keys, and bag balancing on my hands and wrists.

Okay, so, yes. Mark and I have been texting non-stop since last night, when I texted him for the first time. And it’s been going way better than expected. I’ve been, shockingly, acting like a normal person. Which is a shock, considering what I went through to get to this point.

After I got home from work, I went back and forth on what I should text him for approximately three hours. I almost texted him immediately after he left the store, but I didn’t want him to think that a) I was desperate and/or b) that I text at work. Both of which may be completely true, but I have to keep my true self hidden for as long as possible.

Once I gained enough courage to text him, things went swimmingly. Better than swimmingly, even. And, yeah. I was drinking (a lot of) wine as I texted him, which helped (astronomically), but I woke up and I wasn’t even ashamed of how much I was flirting with him, because he was flirting right back with me.

My phone buzzes as I set all of my belongings down on my kitchen counter. Atticus weaves himself in and out of my legs and meows until I scratch behind his ears and underneath his chin – our daily routine. I bend down to give him attention and smile when he instantaneously starts to purr.

Once Atticus is satisfied, I open Mark’s newest iMessage.

**_What?! I could’ve totally been an engineer! What were you expecting?_ **

I smirk as I begin my response. The best thing about Mark – so far – is his humor, and the second might just be the fact that he didn’t graduate college, either. Neither of us are in the position to judge.

_I was thinking more along the lines of accountant._

**_It’s because I’m Asian, isn’t it?_ **

_To be honest, no. It’s because of the glasses._

**_Racist. Racist and sexist. Racist, sexist, and nerdist._ **

_Racist and sexist?! It’s NOT because you’re Asian = not racist. I said nothing about your sex = not sexist. And nerdist?! Nerdist isn’t even a thing, first of all. Second of all, I manage a bookstore. I can’t be against my own kind. Nerds are my people._

I sigh and set down my phone after sending the message. He’s a piece of work, but he keeps me on my toes. And, to be honest, I haven’t stopped smiling since eight o’clock last night.

As I look through my mail, my phone buzzes with the arrival of Mark’s newest message. I continue to rifle through bills and various coupon inserts when a letter catches my eye. Like a friend you haven’t seen in a while, the envelope immediately puts a smile on my face and makes my heart start to beat faster.

My pen pal’s familiar block printing provides my name and PO Box address, along with his own in the upper left-hand corner. I take my pointer finger and run it under the seal, not worrying about preserving the envelope’s integrity.

DEAR AMELIA, it reads.

I APOLOGIZE THAT I DID NOT HOLD UP MY OFFER OF WRITING YOU A LETTER EVERY DAY OF MY VACATION, BUT I DO NOT HAVE THAT KIND OF TIME AND YOU DO NOT DESERVE THAT MUCH ATTENTION FROM ME. THAT IS NOT TO SAY THAT YOU DON’T DESERVE AT LEAST ONE LETTER IN RESPONSE TO YOUR PREVIOUS, SO HERE IT IS.

I’VE BEEN DOING A BIT OF READING LATELY, AS PER YOUR RECOMMENDATION. OBVIOUSLY I CANNOT KEEP UP WITH YOUR BOOK LIST BECAUSE I HAVE MUCH MORE OF A LIFE THAN YOU DO, BUT I READ ONE BOOK OVER THE PAST WEEK I TOOK OFF FROM WORK. IT WASN’T VERY GOOD AND I HAVE NOBODY TO BLAME BUT YOU, AS YOU WERE THE ONE WHO TOLD ME TO READ IT. CAN YOU GUESS WHICH ONE I DECIDED TO GO FOR?

IN YOUR LAST LETTER, YOU ASKED A SERIES OF QUESTIONS, WHICH I SHALL NOW ANSWER. AS YOU SO DELICATELY FORMATTED YOUR QUESTIONS IN A BULLETED LIST, I SHALL PROVIDE MY ANSWERS IN THE SAME WAY:

A)     NO, I DO NOT ENJOY THE THOUGHT OF A TROPICAL VACATION. FISH ARE UNTRUSTWORTHY AND I HATE THE TASTE OF COCONUT.

B)     I DO PLAN TO MARRY ONE DAY. JUST HAVE TO FIND THE RIGHT WOMAN WHO CAN PROVIDE THE DOWRY OF ONE GOAT TO MY FAMILY.

C)     MAYBE. BUT ONLY IF MERCURY IS IN RETROGRADE.

YOU SEEMED A BIT DOWN IN YOUR LAST LETTER. ALTHOUGH IT WOULD BE FOOLISH OF YOU TO ASSUME THAT I CARE ABOUT YOUR FEELINGS, I DO NOT WANT YOU TO FEEL SAD ABOUT ANYTHING, ESPECIALLY SOMETHING THAT YOU CANNOT CONTROL. REMEMBER: AS LONG AS YOU ARE HAPPY WITH YOURSELF, EVERYONE ELSE CAN GO FUCK THEMSELVES.

I HOPE THAT YOU FIND YOURSELF IN BETTER SPIRITS THIS WEEK. IF NOT, I HEAR VODKA HELPS, AND I KNOW HOW MUCH YOU LIKE TO DRINK.

GODSPEED,

JAKE

I read the letter twice before putting it back into its envelope, a habit I acquired after my second letter from Jake arrived, nearly a year ago. I’ve found that if I read Jake’s weekly letter twice, I can formulate wittier responses to his rude comments in my letters back to him.

Most people would probably assume that having a pen pal past the age of twelve would constitute some sort of mental illness. While I am not completely free from the fate of such an ailment, I am a firm believer in the fact that having a pen pal at the age of twenty-six is infinitely better and more fun than having a pen pal in middle school.

Jake and I connected through Tumblr, as embarrassing as that is to admit. We both belonged to a community for those seeking strangers to write to – because Jake also lives in Los Angeles, it was fast for us to send letters to one another. So, for the past year, we’ve been writing back and forth to one another.

I’m quite fond of Jake, even though I would never – under any circumstance – admit that to him. We have a relationship full of love and admiration that is thickly veiled by insults and mockery of one another. If I can count on one thing, I can count on the fact that every week and a half, a letter from Jake will show up in my PO Box, his boxy printing in black ink taking up most of the envelope’s face.

I immediately begin composing a response to Jake, which can take me anywhere from a half hour to three hours, depending on the length, how high quality my jokes are, and how distracted I am as I’m writing it. I sit down at my kitchen table and get to work, trying my best to formulate a retort that will make Jake laugh.

Before I realize any time has gone by at all, my phone begins vibrating frantically beside me. “MARK” pops up on my screen and I physically seize up and gasp. Realizing that I hadn’t responded back to his message – shit, I hadn’t even read his message – I answered the phone quickly. Maybe he wouldn’t realize I forgot?!

“Hello?”

“Did you die?” his deep voice bellowed through the phone, sounding slightly different than his voice in-person.

“No!” I squeaked. “I’m sorry, I just was wr-“

“It’s fine!” he interrupted me. “It’s fine, don’t worry. I was just kidding.”

I awkwardly laughed and began to cover up the letter I was writing to Jake, as though Mark had caught me doing something wrong and I needed to explain myself.

“Anyway,” he started. “I’m going to be working for the next few hours and won’t be able to get to my phone to text you. So,” he paused for a moment to breathe. “Before I start working, I was wondering if you are free any night this week to grab some dinner…”

“Yes!” I reply eagerly. Almost too eagerly. “Yes,” I respond again, more calmly this time. “I would love to. I’m free,” I pause, knowing that I am free every single night this week, but not wanting to seem like a crazy cat lady with no social life. Which, once again, may be true, but he doesn’t have to know that right now. “I’m free Thursday night.”

“Thursday, okay,” Mark contemplates. “Thursday it is. Does seven sound alright?”

“Yep!” I chirp, almost more eager than before. “Seven. On Thursday.”

“Okay, we’ll figure out the details later, but I just wanted to make sure that I reserved at least one night with you before all of your other gentlemanly callers swooped you up,” he chuckles.

“Oh, yeah,” I scoff. “I usually take Thursday nights off from my exhausting dating life, but I’ll make an exception for you.”

Mark laughs and I roll my eyes at myself, hoping that he can somehow find a way to forgive me for being so horrific at flirting on the fly. At least via text message, I can take a second to formulate my response. Over the phone or in person? That’s a different story. A sad, awkward, dreadful story.

“I feel so honored,” Mark replies. “I’ll text you once I’m done working, if that’s okay with you?”

“Absolutely,” I nod, uncovering my letter to Jake. “I’ll be here.”

“I’ll talk to you later, Amelia.”

“Have fun working,” I say. “Text me when you’re free.” After we say goodbye, I hang up my phone and set it beside me.

And then, without skipping a beat, I throw my torso onto my dining room table and groan, hating myself for nearly every second of that conversation. Atticus meows from my feet, most likely less concerned with what’s wrong with me and more concerned with when he was getting dinner.

“Shut up,” I moan in his general direction. “I’d like to see you do better. You just shut up.”


	4. Chapter Four

“Agh, fuck,” I mutter to myself as I so expertly swipe my lipstick onto my teeth. Rubbing it off in a way that can only be described as violent, I will my hands to stop shaking so much. I put the cap back onto my lip crayon, close the mirror, and flip up the visor in my car. “Calm down, calm down,” I breathe in and out. My hands haven’t stopped shaking since I started getting ready an hour and a half earlier. My mouth is dry, my heart is racing, and I feel like I’m about to vomit.

Here’s the thing about first dates: nobody likes them. Absolutely nobody. I get so nervous that I sometimes physically make myself sick. My stomach hurts, I start sweating, and my head gets all foggy due to a lack of oxygen to my brain. I work myself up to the point where I tell myself that it’s not worth it. Just turn around, never look back, and be single forever.

But, this time, I think about who I’m having the first date with. Mark. It’s just Mark. Mark, who I’ve been texting for the past four days. Mark, who makes me laugh. Mark, who called me beautiful after I send him a selfie of me right when I wake up, just because he asked. I take a deep breath in and release it, which helps to calm myself down, if only slightly. I tell myself that Mark is just as nervous as I am, even though it’s probably not true. Why would he be as nervous as I am? Why would anybody be as nervous as I am?

I check my makeup once more in the mirror, just for good measure. Taking one last deep breath, I grab my purse and get out of my car. I look at my reflection in my driver’s side window. After adjusting my bra and patting my boobs for good luck, I give myself a nod. You got this.

Mark and I planned to meet outside of the restaurant, so I parked two parking lots over, just to give myself a few moments to gather my nerves before reaching him. I can see him standing outside of the double doors, dressed in dark jeans and a navy button-down. I’m thankful that he doesn’t seem to have noticed me yet. I immediately regret wearing a dress – even though it’s flowy and casual, it’s hot outside. Like, really hot. I don’t appreciate how my thighs start to sweat as I walk towards him. I can only imagine a huge-ass sweat stain emerging in between my legs while I’m sitting at dinner, which will be the end of me if Mark were to notice it.

_Shut up_ , I tell myself as I make my way towards him. _Quit thinking about sweating. It only makes you sweat more_.

Mark looks up and notices me. He instantaneously smiles and offers a small wave. I wave back, but the distance between us is too much for me to greet him verbally. And then, awkwardly, we maintain eye contact until I reach him. I don’t know what to do with my hands when I approach, so I adjust my purse and brush my hair behind my shoulder.

“Hello,” he breathes. “You look beautiful.”

I smile and glance down at my feet. I have this habit of not really believing compliments directed towards me.

“Thank you,” I reply. “So do you.”

He thanks me and chuckles, obviously thinking that I meant to say _handsome_ instead of beautiful, but I definitely meant to say beautiful. The way he grins with his perfectly white teeth, how his eyes squint around the edges with his smile, and the way his forearms look with the sleeves of his shirt rolled up into the crook of his elbow – it’s all so beautiful.

“I feel like we should hug,” I blurt out.

Mark’s sudden laughter surprises me, and I realize that my suggestion was a bit strange.

“I mean, we don’t have to. But it’s not like we’re meeting for the first time. I just – I feel like we should hug,” I shrug, playing with the strap on my small leather purse.

“No, no,” Mark takes a step closer to me with concern in his eyes. “I didn’t mean to laugh at you. Of course we should hug.”

I take the slightest of steps towards him and he reaches out, his arms nearly wrapping around my shoulders. I move into his embrace and circle his upper back with my own arms. Shit, I think to myself as I breathe him in. He smells so good.

“You smell amazing,” he mutters into me. The feel of his stubble on my bare shoulder makes me tingle.

“So do you,” I giggle as I pull away. Awesome. I’ve been reduced to giggling already and it hasn’t even been five minutes yet.

“Shall we eat?” he suggests with his left arm ushering me into the restaurant.

“I don’t know if I can,” I say as we make our way through the doors. “I’m so nervous.”

Mark tilts his head and gives me a confused look, but before he can ask any questions, the hostess greets us, asking if we have a reservation. Our table is set for two, and is placed in a quiet corner of the restaurant that’s secluded from the other patrons, besides the two other tables adjacent to us. An older couple leans into each other, the dimly lit room providing an atmosphere of romance. I allow myself to believe that Mark asked we be placed in the quiet, isolated area when he called to make the reservation. By the time we’re seated at our table, I’m happy with the fact that Mark has seemed to forgotten my confession.

“Why are you nervous?” he asks, and my hands pause on their way to pick up the menu in front of me. Instead of going for the dinner menu, I divert them and take a left at the drink menu. Thinking better of it, I simply place my hands in front of me. Maybe if I lace my fingers together, Mark won’t notice that I’m still shaking.

“Well,” I begin. He keeps staring at me intently, like I’m some sort of main event at a circus sideshow. I start to worry that my hair is out of place, or the top of my strapless bra cup is showing, or that lipstick is still on my teeth. I quickly run the tip of my tongue across my front teeth before speaking again. “I just – I guess – I haven’t…” I can’t seem to get the words out. Mark gives me an encouraging smile. “Fuck,” I mumble under my breath. Gasping slightly, I cover my mouth with my fingertips. “I’m sorry.”

Mark laughs at me again, this time a bellowing laughter that causes him to place a hand on his chest. The sound of it makes me smile, and I’m able to roll my eyes at myself and the ridiculousness of the situation. For once, in my life, I wish that I could pull it together long enough to at least appear normal. With Mark having laughed at me more than once within the first fifteen minutes of our first date, it seems as though appearing normal is out of the question.

When our waiter comes by to pour us water and ask us if we would like anything to drink, I’m relieved when Mark orders a glass of red table wine. Maybe with the promise of alcohol, I’ll be able to formulate a sentence that doesn’t make me want to die.

Once our waiter leaves, it’s just the two of us, once again.

“So,” Mark starts. “Are you going to tell me why you’re so nervous?”

“Yes,” I breathe out. “At least, I’ll try.” I take a sip of water and start again. “I always get really nervous on first dates. I hate the build-up, because I always get freaked out about nothing. Things normally go well and I kick myself for getting so anxious about it later. But, you’re the first guy who’s come along in a while that I’ve actually been really interested in,” I explain. “I usually spend a lot of time alone. Not that I don’t like people, or that I’m some ridiculous fool who can’t hold a conversation,” I scoff, “but I just like my time to myself. So I get a little anxious when I get to know someone at first.”

And with each word, my nerves calm. Mark never breaks eye contact with me during my explanation, as if he’s genuinely interested in what I have to say. He nods along, as if he can relate to what I’m saying.

“I get it,” he agrees. “I totally get it. I love hanging out with people, but I need my time alone to feel like myself. I gotta recharge my batteries,” he thanks the waiter as he sets the two wine glasses down in front of us. After explaining that we’ll need more time to look over the menu and yes, a complimentary bread basket would be lovely, he continues to explain himself. “And I’m flattered that you’re interested in me.”

“Oh,” I hold the wine glass to my lips and blush slightly before taking a small sip. “I wouldn’t be here if I weren’t. I’m just glad to be on a date with someone as a personal choice, not as a favor to a friend whose cousin is in town.”

Mark smiles and nods as he sets his wine glass down. “I’ve been there,” he snorts. “I’ve been there so many times. Luckily, I’ve never been the cousin in need of a date.”

As we peruse the menu, we make fun of each other while trying to pronounce the names of all of the Italian dishes on the menu. Luckily, we’re both equally horrible at it, which causes us to laugh quietly in our corner of the restaurant. We catch the attention of the older couple who is sharing the room with us. They both look at us with smiles in their eyes, as if they know something we don’t.

By the time we order – Mark gets the stuffed peppers and I go for a vegetarian lasagna – my hands have stopped shaking and my heartrate has eased itself to a more manageable level. I find it easy to talk with Mark, and he apologizes with a smile that tells me he’s not entirely sorry after I snort into my wine glass after a joke he made. In a fit of coughing and laughter, I shake my head with my napkin pressed to my lips, all while he laughs with a hand on his chest.

“Not fair,” I gasp for air once my coughing has stopped.

“Are you okay?” Mark inquires as his laughter dissipates.

“Yeah,” I nod, taking a sip of water, “I’m fine. Just wasn’t ready for that one.”

We continue our light banter back and forth until our food comes. At one point, I’m talking with my hands so vigorously that the piece of bread I’m holding slips out of my fingers and flies behind me. Immediately, my cheeks flush and I freeze mid-sentence. Mark and I stare at each other without blinking, trying not to laugh. I move my eyes without moving my neck and realize that Mark has started to laugh without making a noise.

I get up from my seat and scuttle on my tiptoes to retrieve the piece of bread. The older couple focuses their attention on me and I wave the bread at them as an explanation. I sit back down at the table, where Mark is still laughing.

Rolling my eyes at myself, I adjust my hair and take a deep breath. “Okay,” I say. “Now that that’s over…”

Once our food comes, we continue talking, but in spurts. The thing about food is that it’s the most important thing in my life. I get that I need it for survival, but I also need it for my own happiness. I love food, food loves me, and nobody can get in the way of that relationship. Not even the gorgeous man sitting across from me, although I do continue to answer his questions and ask my own as I make my way through my lasagna.

“Okay, so,” I start, placing my napkin in my lap after finishing my plate of food. That makes it sound like I finished my dinner in seconds, but listen – I didn’t. I took my time like a civilized human being. Mark is finished with his plate, too. No judgement necessary here. “Let’s talk more about this YouTube thing.”

Finishing up the wine in his glass, Mark nods. “What about it?”

“Well, we didn’t really talk about it. You just told me that you make YouTube videos for a living and you were going to be an engineer. Why not an engineer?”

“It’s kind of a long story,” he pauses to adjust his glasses. “I felt like I needed to go to college because that’s what everyone else wanted me to do. I played around with a bunch of different majors before I realized that I wasn’t happy. What did make me happy was playing video games and making videos about it. So I started doing that instead,” he elaborated.

“So, your job is to play video games?” I question.

“Basically.”

I try to keep my face as neutral as possible. His job is to play video games. I’m relatively aware of the internet and all it has to offer. I understand that technology is the future. I realize that people are making careers out of YouTube. Really successful careers. But I cannot imagine that the man sitting in front of me has made the choice to play video games and post videos of him doing so as an occupation.

“It’s a lot less weird than you think…” he begins to explain himself, but I abruptly remember that I am a manager of a small bookstore with the same amount of college experience as Mark. Am I in any place to judge?

“No, no,” I shake my head, not allowing him to go any further. “I don’t think it’s weird.”

Although, in actuality, I do think it’s weird. Ever do that crazy thing where you decide to be completely honest with someone? Just, for some reason, to tell the truth? I decide that Mark deserves the truth from me. So, I let him know that I do think it’s weird, but that doesn’t mean it’s weird. I just haven’t experienced it. Things that we’ve never experienced before can be weird at first, right?

“Plus,” I add. “If you’ve made a career out of it, you’re obviously good at it. How many followers do you have?”

“Followers?” he smiles. “Subscribers.”

“Subscribers? Okay. Subscribers. How many subscribers do you have?”

“Over eight million. Almost nine, actually.”

And he doesn’t brag about it. It’s obviously something he’s proud of, but he’s not boastful when he gives me the numbers.

“Nine million,” I repeat. “Nine million people subscribe to your videos on YouTube?” I have to say it out loud so that it registers.

“Yeah,” he leans back in his chair a little, almost like a deep secret of his is finally out in the open. “It’s a lot of fun. I can’t believe it myself. My channel has grown so much in the past year alone. I’m so, so lucky to be able to do what I do.”

“I can tell you love it,” I lean back in my chair, too. “I can’t believe you have nine million subscribers and I haven’t ever heard about you before. Or even seen you. I mean, I hang out with a lot of nerds,” I laugh. Then I realize that I may have offended him by implying that he was a nerd, so I instantly apologize for my choice of words.

“It’s okay,” he assures me. “I’m a nerd. I’m a total nerd. But you are too, Miss Bookstore. Just a different kind of nerd, I’m beginning to find out.”

I wholeheartedly agree with his statement, but want to continue to talk about his YouTube channel. I ask him to give me the basic rundown of what he does, and when he tells me that his main priorities are to give back to the community and to help people know that they are important, my heart begins to pound in my chest.

I’ve had this feeling before. The feeling of getting to know a person; the feeling that you’ll be remembered by them, if only for a short period of time. The feeling that your conversation will be something you look back on fondly; the feeling that you matter to someone. It felt as though I was falling for Mark, but the rapidity in which I was doing so made me think that it was just the wine.

“That’s amazing,” I whisper.

The way he looked at me made me tingle all the way down to the tips of my hair. It’s the kind of way everyone wants to be looked at by someone. I know that in romance novels and fairytales, the female lead always describes her male interest’s gaze as one that made her feel as though she was the only one in the room. But, since the elderly couple had left, I was literally the only one in the room, so I had no choice but feel that way.

Mark took a deep breath and placed his hands on the linen tablecloth, facedown. “Do you feel that?” he asks. “It’s like…it’s right in the pit of my stomach. It’s almost like…I don’t know,” he shakes his head, words not coming to his mind that properly describe the sensation.

“May be fast-acting food poisoning,” I smirk.

He grins and shakes his head again. “No, you know what I mean.”

“Yeah,” I nod, my voice breathy. “I do.”

It was the perception that something was going to happen. Neither of us knew what it was, but we could both feel it growing in our core. We looked at each other from across the small, circular table, saying nothing. The familiar, comfortable silence fell between us. It was easy just to sit there in each other’s presence and be completely at ease.

“We should go,” Mark suggests. The bill was paid, and while I thought it would be a nice gesture to order and share a dessert, the butterflies in my stomach dissuaded me from suggesting it.

Once we made it outside of the restaurant, the sun was setting over the water, causing a glow of pink and gold to cast over the street. While many people bustled about the sidewalks, not many cars littered the roads, allowing our conversation to continue as we walked, side-by-side, down to the beach.

“I guess I let other people make me feel bad for what I do,” I continued explaining my current life dilemma as we sat down on a wooden bench over the sand. “I love what I do, and while I don’t make the most money anyone has ever made, it makes me happy.”

“So who cares what anyone else thinks?”

“I mean,” I start. I bite my lower lip and look at him as I position my body so it’s facing him. “You know how it is. I want my parents to be proud of me, and I would rather not have my friends talk about my wasted potential behind my back.”

“If your friends talk badly about you behind your back-“

“I know, I know,” I interrupt him. “Then they’re not my friends. But I think they’re just worried about me. But I want them to know that I’m fine! I am! Seriously!” I throw my hands up in exasperation.

“Trust me, I know you’re fine,” Mark lowers his voice a register and wiggles his eyebrows. A burst of laughter escapes my mouth and I quickly cover it with my hand in surprise. I would rather not sound like a dying duck on a first date.

“Thank you,” I say once my laughter is under control. “So are you,” and I wink at him in the most ridiculous way my body can conjure, which should honestly worry me, but I’m comfortable enough with Mark at this point that I ignore my initial reaction of embarrassment.

“I really want to kiss you right now,” he asserts with a smile on his face.

“Okay,” I nod, smiling. My heart leaps into my throat as he scoots closer to me on the bench. “I’ll let you kiss me right now.”

Mark looks at me in the eyes before his right hand makes its way to the side of my face, his fingers wrapping themselves around the back of my neck. We both lean in and as our lips touch, my eyes flutter shut and my toes begin to curl in my flats.

And, okay, yes I have kissed my fair share of gentlemen. Some have been horrible, some have been okay, and some have been amazing. But when I say that Mark Fischbach knows how to kiss, I mean it. It almost worries me how well he knows how to kiss. Did he take a class? How many women has he kissed before? How much experience does he have to know exactly how to kiss me?

As our kiss continues, he varies the pressure of his lips. Being aware of the fact that we’re in public, I make a point to not slip my tongue out onto his lower lip, but it’s damn near impossible to keep from moaning when he drags his upper lip across my own so that he is dominating the kiss.

Your lips, I think, are so damn soft.

I pull back from his lips and rest my forehead on his. We breathe in together and smile into each other, both quiet for a few moments.

“I haven’t felt this way about someone in a very long time,” Mark whispers.

“Me neither,” I mutter. “But unless we want to get arrested, we might want to get out of here.”

“Okay,” he laughs. “But I’m going to kiss you one more time before we leave.”

And he does.


	5. Chapter Five

“You’re lying,” Rebecca says as I sip haughtily on my mimosa. “You’re lying! I can tell by the look on your face.”

“I didn’t sleep with him,” I chuckle and shake my head.

Rebecca insisted that I meet her for breakfast on the morning of the Fourth of July. Rebecca’s fiancé, Matt, comes from an incredibly wealthy family, whose matriarch demands lavish parties for every holiday that’s deemed worthy of a celebration. Her future mother-in-law is terrifying, so of course Rebecca bends over backwards to please her and prove to her that yes, she is good enough for her baby. This year, Matt’s parents are throwing a Fourth of July extravaganza that begins at noon – guests will not be allowed to enter if they’re wearing colors other than red, white, or blue – and Rebecca is expected to be at their estate before the festivities begin. Thus, breakfast at 8am on Saturday morning, it is.

“You did!” she slaps her palm on the table, causing our cocktails to clank against the fruit platter in front of us. “You so totally did!”

“Okay, no more mimosas for you,” I begin to reach for her champagne glass before she slaps my wrists away. The only way Rebecca can ever survive a Vanderbilt Spectacular is to drink heavily beforehand. Her in-laws frowned upon drunken debauchery, so Rebecca drank prior to every gala she and Matt were expected at and withheld a steady buzz by sipping daintily on cocktails throughout the events.

“Just admit it. Just admit to penetration and I’ll leave you alone about it,” she slurs ever-so-slightly.

“Don’t use that word,” I shiver. “I won’t admit to it because _it didn’t happen_.”

“Not even the tip?”

I throw my head back and laugh, the sun warming my cheeks. We were lucky enough to grab a table on the outdoor patio before the restaurant became busy - it’s a gorgeous day, as most Independence Days are in California. It’s been a full 24-hours since Mark and I had our first date, and I haven’t stopped thinking about him since.

Once we left the beach, I followed him back to his house, where he gave me a complete tour of everything. He showed me his workspace, which I immediately deemed a studio, and explained to me the logistics of recording, editing, and posting his videos. Genuinely interested in the craft, I listened intently and asked as many questions as I could – his world was infinitely more interesting than mine.

After making a pit stop for wine in the kitchen, we both sat down on the couch in his living room, which was decorated in cool grays and warm creams. I tucked my bare feet underneath me, my side leaning against the back of the sofa as I sipped my wine and listened to him talk about his move to California last year.

For the remainder of the night, we made out intensely and then continued our conversation in between kissing each other. This process repeated itself until 3am, when I finally decided that I needed to go home and sleep for a few hours before I had to open the store. Mark walked me to my car, where we made out for another five minutes after he pushed me against my driver’s side door, telling me how beautiful he thought I was and how he didn’t want me to leave.

“I really like you,” I murmured against his lips.

Gently swiping my hair behind my ears, he kissed my forehead and the tip of my nose. “Promise me you won’t make me wait long to see you again.”

“I won’t,” I whisper as I kiss his lips once more.

I was lying to myself when I said I was going to get some sleep. I drifted in and out of lucidness until my alarm went off at 7am, smiling whenever something Mark had said throughout the night slipped into my mind. There wasn’t any way I could easily drift off to sleep with the way my heart felt. Every time I would think about how his lips felt against mine; how his laugh echoed throughout his house and ricocheted against my ribcage; how he would look at me as he pulled away from our kiss; how he would reach for my hand as we sat on his couch, talking about anything and everything; every time I recalled any detail from the evening, my heart would race, my face would flush, and my attempts at falling asleep would be for naught.

I turn my attention back to Rebecca, who is talking wildly with her hands.

“…if not now, _when_?!” she gesticulates across the table with her slim fingers.

“Rebecca,” I stare her down over the rim of my sunglasses. “We’ve been talking for a total of one week. We just had our first date. We’ll get to the sex eventually.”

“But did you warn him that you haven’t had sex for like, a year and a half?!”

I shush her immediately, glancing over my shoulder to make sure nobody heard her. She stuffs two grapes in her mouth before waving her hands at me in a way that tells me I should fuck off. I flip her off and whisper, “I’ll kill you,” under my breath before biting into a piece of pineapple.

“Okay, but, Mimi,” she leans in, consciously lowering her voice. “He’s gonna have to blow the cobwebs out of your hoolahay before you get busy with it. You’ve gotta let him know.”

I look at her incredulously, knowing that I’m going to have to call Matt before I drop her off at their condo. I can’t leave her at their doorstep like an unwanted orphan, cold and afraid, left to her own devices. He’s going to need to know what he’s dealing with before helping her dress for the party.

“I don’t have cobwebs growing _down there_ ,” I scold her. “Quit worrying about my sex life and just be happy for me!”

“Okay, okay. I am happy for you. I am so happy for you. You said you really liked him? That’s great! And he’s a good kisser, right?”

“Fantastic kisser,” I affirm.

“ _Fantastic kisser_ ,” she mocks me, wiggling her eyebrows up and down. I give her the Stare of Death and she raises her hands in innocence. “Okay I’ll stop. But really. I kind of can’t believe how well it’s going, even though it’s only been…what’d you say? A week? Usually you screw it up by then.”

“Well would you look at the time!” I gasp, desperately hoping that my breakfast date was going to come to an abrupt end at any second. “I think we better get you home.”

“What time is it?” Rebecca groans, checking her phone. “9:30? Ugh, fuck.”

She begins to gather her belongings, and I’m relieved that I don’t have to convince her to leave.

“Sometimes I wonder why I’m still friends with you,” I growl as I link my arm in hers in order to steady her out of the restaurant.

Once I get Rebecca into Matt’s custody, I walk back to my car and answer my vibrating cellphone, my pulse quickening with the realization that Mark is calling.

“Hello?” I squeak. I plop down in my car and blast the air conditioning immediately – my dashboard tells me that it’s 95 degrees, and it’s only 10 o’clock in the morning.

“Hi, gorgeous,” Mark’s voice fills my ears and I instantly smile, loving his compliment and the sound of his voice.

“Hi, handsome,” I sigh, pushing my hair off of my forehead. “How are you?”

“I’m good, I’m good. I’d be better if I were with you.”

I giggle in the way that I hate. I hate how every time someone compliments me, especially a good-looking male, I get all weird and giggly. What _is_ that? Was I taught not to receive compliments well somewhere down the line? Being told I’m beautiful makes me giggle uncomfortably; being told I’m smart makes me blush; being told I’m funny makes me bashful. Maybe it’s because I don’t believe the nice things people say about me. But whenever Mark calls me beautiful or laughs at something I say, I can’t help myself when the giggling and embarrassment starts.

“You’re not filming today?” I ask, biting on the nail of my pointer finger.

“I already did,” he says, “I have the rest of the day free. You’re not working today, are you?”

“No, the store’s closed,” I lean back in my seat, content to just hear his voice again. _And it’s only been a day_.

“Are you doing anything later? Around six or so?” he asks. “I know that I just saw you the day before yesterday, and I know that it’s a national holiday and that you might have plans, but if you don’t…”

It pleases me how he begins to ramble. Obviously I’m not the only one who’s nervous about the possibility of seeing him again.

“No, no, I don’t have anything planned,” I put him out of his misery and wince at how boring it makes me sound. No plans on the Fourth of July? Rebecca _did_ invite me to her in-laws’, but there’s no way in hell I would be caught dead at the Vanderbilt’s without at least a fifth of vodka in me.

“Okay,” he breathes out in what sounds like relief. “Great. Great! Do you want to grab dinner and then watch the fireworks at the pier? I know it’ll probably be crazy busy, but we can park on the outskirts and walk into town.”

“Sure,” I nod, even though he can’t see me. “I would love that.”

He plans to pick me up at six, so we end the phone call with the promise that I would text him my address. I drive back to my apartment and spend the rest of the day debating on what I should wear. I take a fitful nap around noon, trying to catch up on the sleep I’ve lost over the past day and a half.

Mark calls me at 6 o’clock on the dot, notifying me that he’s outside my apartment building. And by apartment building, I mean a building from the early 1900s that has been multiple things over the course of its lifetime. Currently, the upper half of the building is my small apartment and the bottom half is a flower shop. The owner, a woman in her sixties with graying hair, always leaves me fresh bouquets when her shipments come in.

I slide into Mark’s car, thankful to get into the air conditioning, even though I was outside for a maximum of thirty seconds.

“Hi,” I greet him as I buckle my seatbelt.

“Goddamnit,” he whispers under his breath. “You’re so gorgeous. How do you do it?!”

I laugh and shake my head at him before placing my hand on his shoulder. “Thank you,” I say. “But I’m not that gorgeous.”

“Don’t say that,” he frowns as he slides his Ray-Bans onto the crown of his head. A piece of hair falls casually onto his forehead, making me want to kiss him. “Of course you are. I don’t let ugly girls into my car!” he scoffs.

I look at him through my eyebrows, pursing my lips. He chuckles and snakes his hands around to the back of my head. He pulls me in for a kiss, and the quickness of it causes me to place the palm of my hand on his chest to steady myself. We stay that way for a few moments longer and the look he gives me when we pull away from each other causes the same feeling that I had on our first date in the pit of my stomach. The feeling that Mark had thought about me as much as I had thought about him; the feeling that tonight was going to be even better than our previous date; the feeling that I could be around him forever and not regret a single second we spend together.

“Hi,” I say again in a small, silvery voice.

“Hi,” Mark smiles, kissing me once more before we untangle from one another’s embrace. “Is it crazy to say that I missed you? Because I did. I missed you.”

“I missed you too,” I smirk, hoping that he can’t tell that my heartrate just quickened to approximately a million beats per minute.

Mark rests his right hand on the gear selector as he drives, and it takes me a good five minutes to work up the courage to rest my left hand on top of his. He asks me questions about my day, and I ask questions about his, but the whole time, I’m fighting with myself over placing my hand on top of his.

_Will he think I’m coming on to him? And is that a bad thing? What if he thinks my hands are slimy? Or what if they’re too dry? What if he hates hands? What if he needs to suddenly drive with two hands and then my hand gets caught between the seats and it gets torn off and I’m missing my left hand for the rest of my life?!_

I take a deep breath in and place my hand on top of his. He abruptly stops talking when we make contact, and I panic that it’s too weird. Yes, we’ve made out. We’ve _heavily_ made out. Like him on top of me, my legs wrapped around his thighs, the panting, the breathy sighs, the geeky smiles afterwards. The whole shebang. (Okay, not the _whole_ shebang, but you know what I mean). But placing your hand on top of another person’s as they’re driving just seems so… _intimate_.

But then Mark looks down at my hand on his, and he smiles a content smile. I squeeze his hand slightly and run my thumb over his pinky finger. We spend the rest of the time in the car in comfortable silence with the occasional comment about a particular restaurant or passerby. At one point, Mark moves his hand onto my thigh, and we weave our fingers together.

While Mark looks for a parking spot, I suggest that we order a pizza to go from a pizzeria that’s on the boardwalk so that we can eat it on the pier while we wait for the sun to set.

“I love pizza,” he replies, which I take as a yes.

It takes us a good fifteen minutes to walk to the boardwalk from where we’ve parked, but neither of us mind. Although it’s hot, there’s a cool breeze that skitters across the land from the ocean that offers respite from the heat. With the holiday celebration in full-force, we dodge intoxicated patrons, almost as if we are in a real-life video game. I almost mention the thought to Mark, but I know that I would only feel stupid afterwards, like I was trying to connect with him on a superficial level, so I mention how I already had to deal with a drunken mess this morning during breakfast, instead.

As we walk down the boardwalk, Mark grabs my hand and laces his fingers into mine. I glance up at him and offer a smirk, loving the way my heart skipped a beat when he intertwined his hand with mine.

“She met Matt when she was a cocktail waitress at Matt’s favorite club. Kind of like the whole _You’re too smart for this, let me show you how fabulous your life could be_ deal. It’s not that Rebecca isn’t smart, because she is. She was paying her way through her undergrad – was going to be a lawyer. But Matt swept her off her feet and he doesn’t want her to work. So they live in a condo that Matt’s parents own, and while Matt sells insurance, Rebecca stays at home, bored out of her mind,” I explain Rebecca’s situation to Mark while we walk.

“So she’s just sitting around all day?”

“I mean, she goes out. She really likes to brunch. Like, the verb, brunch. She _actively_ brunches,” I roll my eyes. “I guess her mother-in-law to be is training her on how to be a Vanderbilt woman. Like there’s a process to it.”

“And you’re best friends with this girl?”

“We’ve been best friends since birth, it seems like,” I look up at him, lifting my brows at his disapproving stare. “Oh, don’t give me that look,” I nudge my side into his and he smiles.

I always get this reaction from everyone I describe Rebecca to without having met her first. Rebecca is a tough pill to swallow, and I realize that. But she _does_ give me really great advice, and even though she’s essentially in-training to become the perfect housewife, she’s been my partner in crime for as long as I can remember.

“Okay, I won’t judge,” he lifts his free hand up in surrender. “It just doesn’t seem like you would hang out with someone who’s training to become a “Vanderbilt woman” – whatever that means.”

“She’s an interesting character,” I say. “She’s not everyone’s cup of tea, but can anyone be all of the time? I’m sure her family wonders why she’s friends with me. We’re pretty different, but she knows me better than anyone else. She drives me batshit crazy, but that’s okay.”

Mark gives me a knowing look, and I squeeze his hand in assurance. I give Rebecca the benefit of the doubt in most situations, yes. But I also know that we come from completely different worlds – while she was out partying in high school and college, I was at home, either surfing the internet and talking to friends across the country online, or I had my nose stuck in a book, whether it be for school or for pleasure. I wasn’t socially inept – I _chose_ to stay in. Almost every night, Rebecca would beg me to go out with her. Instead of being her lackey, I was more than satisfied to stay home and do as I pleased. This annoyed her to no end, always describing me to her “other” friends as “a really pretty girl who has so much potential, but wastes it by staying in and being a hermit.” It made me laugh.

But, she was also there for me when a lot of people weren’t. She’s been there for me through every breakup, every milestone, every major life event. She let me stay over at her house when my parents were going through their god-awful divorce; she helped me rip all of my ex-boyfriends’ sweatshirts and pictures to shreds; she held my hair back on my 21st birthday when the last tequila shot had back-fired on me. Rebecca was a handful, but she was my best friend. Nobody needed to understand that. Nobody but the two of us.

Knowing that I shouldn’t go into the minute details of my friendship with Rebecca on our second date, I steered the conversation towards dinner. We both decided quickly on the toppings for our large pizza: ham, pineapple, and green peppers. I was pleased when Mark didn’t put up a fight at my suggestion of pineapple.

With each moment that passed, I felt more and more comfortable with Mark. The initial nervousness I felt in the car waned to a dull, hypersensitive awareness that I knew would stick with me for the remainder of the evening. I always felt this way with _any_ new person I spent one-on-one time with. I analyzed every action I made, making sure that I didn’t come off as awkward or uncomfortable, while at the same time, I paid close attention to how the other person was reacting to me. Were they leaning away from me? Was their body language saying that they were ready to flee the situation? Did they cringe when I laughed a certain way?

I had always been that way – overanalyzing every scenario until I was so “in-my-head” about it that instead of living _in_ the moment, I lived it by playing back the scenes from an outsider’s perspective much later on.

We sat down on one of the last free benches on the pier – it was closer to the boardwalk, but we were lucky to get a spot at all. With the pizza box between us and napkins substituting plates, we ate our pizza and continued to chat about things that seem incredibly important in the beginning stages of a relationship.

“I grew up with a golden retriever,” I reply to his question about pets. “And now I have a four-year-old cat named Atticus. He doesn’t like anyone but me, which I find endearing.”

Mark’s eyes light up at the mentioning of my family’s golden retriever and explains how he would love one of his own, eventually. This makes me smile and brush my hand over his cheek, a bold move that I barely had to think about. He holds my hand against my face and kisses my palm before asking me another question.

For the remainder of the night, I find out trivial things about the man I’m already certain will be the most difficult breakup I’ll ever have to go through, if we get that far. Do you ever do that? Think about what will ruin something before it begins? My neuroticism runs so deep within me that I picture myself sobbing on the floor of my bedroom after Mark breaks the news that he no longer wants to see me anymore. I shake myself of these thoughts and replace them with the promise that if I ever do get my heart broken by him, I will be okay.

I learn that he was born in Hawaii but was raised in Cincinnati, where his mother and brother live currently. His father passed away from cancer, and I can tell that Mark doesn’t want to go into the intricacies of his death, so I don’t push him.

We begin to play a game of absolutes – one of us will ask a question and the other will have to answer in an absolute. It makes us laugh and grabs the attention of onlookers who pass us on their way to the water.

“Sunshine or rain?” he asks.

“Rain. Shorts or pants?”

“Pants. Night or day?”

“Night. Wet or dry?”

Mark snorts at my question before answering. “Dry. Warm or cold?”

“Cold. Autumn or spring?”

“Autumn. Absolutely autumn. Also, I love how you call it autumn. Dogs or cats?”

“Shit!” I almost yell. I cover my mouth and make sure that no small children are around us before I answer. Mark has a wide grin on his face when I speak. “Dogs. Chocolate or vanilla?”

“Chocolate. Do you think chick flicks are dumb?”

“Sometimes,” I begin to answer, and he snaps his fingers and does a disapproving dance.

“Sometimes is certainly _not_ an absolute,” Mark scorns.

“Okay,” I throw my hands up in defeat. “No, I don’t think chick flicks are dumb. Do you think that Crocs are unacceptable?”

“Yes. Do you want to live in California forever?”

“No. Do you want to make YouTube videos forever?”

He hesitates before answering. “No,” he draws out slowly. “That’s not to say-“

“You can’t explain yourself! This is the game of absolutes,” I wag my finger at him and urge him to ask another question.

“Do you want to be the manager of a bookstore forever?”

“No,” I answer immediately, knowing that someday I hope Margaret will show me the ins-and-outs of the business so that I, too, can independently own a book café. “Do you believe in love at first sight?”

“No,” he shakes his head and gives me a wink. A wink that I don’t understand. A wink that will send me into a tailspin for probably the next five years of my life. A wink that could be the death of me. “Do you regret anything you’ve done in the last two years?”

“Yes. Do you think that there is life on Mars?”

“What’s your definition of life?”

“Answer the question, Fischbach,” and he’s taken aback by either the use of his last name or the icy stare I give him, but the look on his face makes me want to throw the pizza box between us into the ocean, jump in his lap, and make out with him until our lips fall off.

“Yes. Are these the droids you’re looking for?”

In a fit of laughter, we lean in to each other, forgetting that there are thousands of people surrounding us.

And that’s how it is with Mark. Minutes seem like nanoseconds, hours seem like minutes, and by the time it’s ready for us to say goodbye outside of my apartment, I feel like I haven’t seen him at all. Knowing that I have to work the next day, and most likely have a busy day ahead of me with the post-holiday tourists looking for souvenirs or a beach read for the rest of their vacation, I bid Mark a goodbye with a certain naïve sadness behind my eyes.

He kisses me in a way that says he doesn’t want me to go – doesn’t want this night to be over. I kiss him back fervently, wanting so badly to stay in his presence for as long as I possibly can. His tongue tastes of the blue raspberry SnoCone we shared, and the softness of it surprises me as he sweeps it across my own. I let out a soft moan, wanting so badly to invite him upstairs, but knowing that I can’t trust myself to behave.

“What are you doing to me?” he whispers in a gruff voice as we pull away from each other. The sound of his growl makes my skin raise into goosebumps, a strange phenomenon during the summer in Los Angeles.

“I don’t know how you feel about me,” I look straight out of his windshield with my hands in my lap, fumbling with each other as though I’m to regret what I’m going to say next. “But I’m developing these crazy feelings for you. Like crazy intense.”

Mark lets out a hearty laugh, one that echoes throughout the car, one that makes me feel insignificant.  A lightning bolt of panic streaks through my chest. He’s laughing _at_ me. Of course. This stupid girl. This stupid, small, oblivious girl. How could something work out so well? How could I be dumb enough to think that he would reciprocate the feelings I’m experiencing? My eyes begin to water and I look to my right, willing the moment to go faster so I can go inside and cry by myself.

“Hey,” his voice rings out in the silence of the car. “Did you think I was laughing at you?” I feel his hand on my shoulder and move my gaze to meet his.

“Sorry,” I shake my head at the stupidity of the situation. I’m tearing up on our second date. He probably thinks that I cry during sex. _Well_ , I think, _it’s good that you’re never going to find out, because this is ending right here, right now_.

“Amelia,” Mark places his hand on the side of my face. His eyes are filled with confusion and what looks like pity. Oh, God. Not pity. “I was laughing because you said you don’t know how I feel about you,” he moves his hand down to my chin and brushes his thumb against my bottom lip. “You make me so goddamn nervous that I can’t feel my feet. Are you really worried that I don’t have feelings for you?”

I breathe a sigh of relief. Okay, okay. I can deal with laughter because I can’t read context clues about him _really liking me_. I make his feet go numb. That’s a good thing, right? A medical headline flashes in my head: _Feet-Numbing-Nervousness, Caused By Awkward Bookstore Girl with Lacking Social Skills Sweeps The Nation, Doctors Confused._

Once we’re able to pull ourselves away from each other for the final time, Mark waits until I unlock the door to my apartment until he drives away. I give him a knowing wave as I step inside, where I promptly throw my purse on the stairs, throw myself against the wall, and scream.

“I MAKE HIM NERVOUS!” I yell to the ceiling. Atticus peaks his head around the corner of the stairs, meowing in concern. “I MAKE HIM NERVOUS AND I PROBABLY GIVE HIM BONERS!”

Although it’s hard to fall asleep that night, I eventually drift off with a final text from Mark playing over and over in my head.

**_Took me the whole drive home to regain feeling. You’re it, girl. You’re the shit._ **


	6. Chapter Six

Sat, Jul 04, 11:36pm

_Thank you again for tonight. I’m still smiling._

**_I wish it would’ve been longer._ **

_I know. I wish I didn’t have to work tomorrow._

**_I wish you didn’t, either. I probably won’t be able to sleep tonight so I might as well get some work done while I’m up._ **

_Why won’t you be able to sleep? That doesn’t sound fun._

**_Thinking about you._ **

_That made me smile._

**_Me too. You make me smile._ **

_Now my stomach’s all fluttery._

**_Foot numbness is starting to set in…must remain calm…_ **

_Oh, stop it._

**_Took me the whole drive home to regain feeling. You’re it, girl. You’re the shit._ **

 

Sun, Jul 05, 7:02am ****

_Hopefully you got to sleep last night. I had a hard time falling asleep myself. Have a good day, handsome. I’ll be thinking about you._

 

Sun, Jul 05, 9:27am

**_Well, that’s a lovely thing to wake up to. I did get some sleep last night, but it wasn’t that restful. You’re a pretty good reason to lose sleep, though. Hope the shop isn’t too busy._ **

 

Sun, Jul 05, 4:03pm

_Holy shit. What a busy day. Sooo many tourists in for last minute gifts. Luckily it’s been dead for the past half hour. Sorry I didn’t text you earlier. Too busy to even check my phone._

**_I’m gonna admit it…I was definitely looking at my phone every two minutes while I was filming. I was hoping you were going to text me. How are you?_ **

_Sorry! I wish I could’ve texted you throughout the day. I’m exhausted now. How was filming?_

**_It was good. Got pretty frustrated with the game I was playing, but that’s normal. Do you get to go home now?_ **

_In an hour. Kinda wish I were going home to you instead of an empty apartment._

**_Well, you’ve got your cat, right?_ **

_He’s not a very good kisser._

**_Does that mean I am?!_ **

_Maybe. Maybe not. I won’t confirm, nor deny. I don’t want your ego to inflate any further._

**_Yeah. I’m a good kisser. That confirms it._ **

_I never said that._

**_Read between the lines, Bookstore Girl. Read between the lines_**.

 

Mon, Jul 06, 3:22pm

_I’m so hungry._

**_Wish we could go grab some dinner together. But I’ve gotta tell you, I wouldn’t be focusing on the food._ **

_Oh yeah? What would you be focusing on?_

**_You. And kissing you. Maybe I’d just start doing it, right at the table in the restaurant for everyone to see._ **

_What if there’s food on the table?!_

**_I’d throw the plates behind me so they’d crash to the floor. Who needs food?_ **

_Okay, what if I’m taking a sip of beer while you do this?_

**_Then I’d smack it out of your hand and smooch ya. Right on the lips._ **

_You would not!_

**_Don’t try me, woman. I would. I would!_ **

 

Mon, Jul 06, 6:48pm

_Do you like it when girls call you daddy?_

**_What? No. Who called me daddy?!_ **

_I’m just wondering._

**_Who called me daddy?!_ **

_Nobody! It’s just a thing now. I was just wondering._

**_Are you gonna call me daddy?!_ **

_Fuck no._

**_Oh thank god._ **

 

Tue, Jul 07, 1:26pm

**_I miss you._ **

_I miss you more._

**_Not possible_ ** _._

 

Tue, Jul 07, 8:51pm

_I accidentally took a three hour nap._

**_Did you just wake up?!_ **

_Yes. I’m a monster._

**_A SEXY monster. And besides, I do that ALL of the time._ **

_Yeah, but I’m a delicate flower and you are an ogre. There is a difference._

**_Delicate flowers aren’t monsters. What is this cultural appropriation?_ **

_I’m laughing hysterically at this._

**_We have such a long history of monstrous behavior together and you just come here and…just…you just…_ **

_I know. I’m sorry._

**_Want me to call you in a bit? I’ve got a few minutes._ **

_I would love that_.

 

Wed, July 08, 1:55am

_I can’t wait to see you again._

**_Don’t even start with me. Just hearing your voice again gave me so many butterflies. Girly, horrible, romantic comedy butterflies._ **

_Stop it._

**_I refuse. It’s true. You’re so goddamn adorable._ **

_How am I so crazy about you already? I can’t stop thinking about you. Ever._

 

Wed, Jul 08, 11:34am

**_I’m glad we finally get to see each other tomorrow. I can’t wait to boop you on the nose._ **

_You’re gonna boop me on the nose?! I can’t wait! Can I boop you on the forehead?_

**_What if it cracks like an egg and a ghost flies out of it?_ **

_Then I’ll use my extensive knowledge of horror movies as a manual for my survival skills. I’ll take all of my clothes off, run into the direction of imminent doom, and then wonder “What the fuck have I gotten myself into?!” as the ghost eats my brains out._

**_Is it weird that I’m turned on right now?_ **

 

Thu, July 09, 7:52pm

**_Almost there. At the stoplight next to your street._ **

_Okay! Eeee! I’ll come let you in._


	7. Chapter Seven

DEAR AMELIA,

YOU GUESSED INCORRECTLY ABOUT THE BOOK. DON’T WORRY ABOUT IT, WE ALL MAKE MISTAKES. TRY HARDER NEXT TIME.

THE THING ABOUT GETTING OLDER IS THAT IT HAPPENS TO EVERYONE. THAT’S ONE THING WE CAN ALL AGREE ON AS HUMANS – MOST OF THE TIME, AFTER THE AGE OF 21, GETTING OLDER SUCKS. I HAD A CRISIS ON MY 23RD BIRTHDAY BECAUSE I REALIZED I HAD NO “FUN” BIRTHDAYS LEFT. BUT I GUESS YOU JUST HAVE TO MAKE YOUR OWN FUN. I’LL BE 27 NEXT YEAR, WHICH TERRIFIES ME, BECAUSE THAT’S WAY TOO CLOSE TO 30. BUT I’LL LOOK AT IT MORE AS A GIFT THAN ANYTHING. A LOT OF PEOPLE DON’T EVEN MAKE IT TO 30.

I DON’T THINK YOU SHOULD BE TOO HARD ON YOURSELF ABOUT THE WHOLE JOB THING. WE ALL HAVE TO START SOMEWHERE, AND IF YOU’RE DOING SOMETHING YOU LOVE, THAT’S ALL THAT MATTERS. PLUS, WHERE ELSE WOULD YOU BE ABLE TO BE THE ABSOLUTE NERD YOU ARE AND NOT BE JUDGED FOR IT? NOWHERE. BESIDES MARS, MAYBE.

I HATE MY JOB SOMETIMES. I REALLY DO. IT’S DEMANDING AND IT TAKES UP MOST OF MY TIME. BUT I THINK A LOT OF PEOPLE HATE THEIR JOBS SOMETIMES. WE CAN’T LIKE THEM ALL THE TIME, CAN WE? MAYBE IT’S NOT US WHO ARE FUCKED UP. MAYBE IT’S SOCIETY, FOR TELLING US THAT WE HAVE TO WORK SO MUCH FOR SO LITTLE. MAYBE IT’S THOSE GUYS ON SHARK TANK WHO ARE FUCKING IT ALL UP FOR US.

IT’S HARD TO REMEMBER A TIME WHEN I WASN’T SWEATING, ACTUALLY. IT FEELS LIKE CALIFORNIA SUMMERS ARE GETTING HOTTER AND HOTTER BY THE YEAR. I MEAN, THEY PROBABLY ARE. GLOBAL WARMING IS REAL AND ANYONE WHO BELIEVES IT’S NOT IS A FUCK. A FUCKING FUCK.

ABOUT MEETING UP…I DON’T KNOW. SHOULD WE?

GODSPEED,

JAKE

I tuck my latest letter from Jake back into the box I keep them in after I finish my response back to him with my swooping signature. I sigh, stick the stamp in the upper right-hand corner of the envelope, and lean back into my couch.

My foot jiggles nervously atop of the rug beneath my feet. I slap the envelope on my knee, my anxieties getting the best of me. I look over the text Rebecca sent me earlier that day, which does nothing to calm my worries.

**_It’s the third date! You HAVE to have sex with him if you plan on continuing your relationship. He’s a guy. You need to have sex with him to keep him around_**.

And, okay, I realize that by typical standards, I _should_ have sex with Mark tonight. That’s what they say in the movies, right? If you don’t put out by the third date, then you’re done. It’s not that I don’t want to have sex with Mark. It’s not that I’m afraid to have sex with Mark. It’s just that I don’t know if it’s too soon.

I feel like the reason why I haven’t been in a successful relationship since my last big breakup is because I rushed it with every other guy I was interested in. I wanted so badly for the guy to like me that I would end up jumping into bed with him on the first night.

You’re judging. I know you’re judging. But I don’t think it’s a bad thing for a girl to explore her sexuality and experiment with different guys. I was safe, okay? I was super safe. But then the guy who I slept with right away was so quick to stop talking to me once we’d had sex. Three guys – yes, _three_ – all slept with me and then used the whole “I’m not really looking for anything serious” bit when they wanted out.

It made me feel like an idiot. It made me feel worthless. It made me feel like a slut, if I’m being honest.

So maybe I _am_ a little afraid to have sex with Mark. I just really – _really_ – don’t want to fuck it up. I’ve enjoyed getting to know him over the past two weeks. I’ve enjoyed it _so_ much. I would tingle whenever I saw that he had texted me; I would relish in the couple of minutes we were able to talk on the phone with one another; I would wake up thinking about him and go to sleep hoping to dream about him. I had turned into a Disney princess overnight.

The way our schedules set up, we hadn’t seen each other since the Fourth. It was now the ninth of July, and I hadn’t been able to see him for five days. Five days that felt like an eternity. As it turns out, five days is the exact amount of time that makes me hate myself for missing him so much.

My phone buzzes, and my heart jumps when I read the text from Mark.

**_Almost there. At the stoplight next to your street._ **

I get up off of the couch and adjust my clothes before making my way to the entrance of my building. I bound down my stairs and out the door to see him pull up right in front. My heart skips a beat when I see him, and I’m happy that I live on a calm side-street that’s not in the center of the city so that he can park right out front.

Mark gets out of his car and walks up to me, a grin plastered across his face. Without even saying hello, he pecks me on the lips and swoops me into an all-encompassing hug that nearly knocks the both of us over. I laugh into his chest and hold onto his broad shoulders. I breathe him in, the scent of his cologne mixing with the softness of his t-shirt.

I’m thankful for the dramatic hello – Mark’s antics immediately put me at ease, and although my heart is still racing and my hands are shaking, there isn’t anything awkward between us.

“Hi, gorgeous,” he greets as he breaks away from our embrace. “I didn’t realize how much I missed you until I saw you standing outside your door. Goddamn, you’re hot.”

I laugh and hug him once more, somewhat burying my face in his chest to hide the fact that I’m blushing. “I missed you, too. You’re not wearing your glasses.”

“I know!” he throws his head back. “Don’t I look great?”

“You do,” I nod. “You really do.”

We make our way up the stairs to my apartment, but before we make it to the door, Mark comments on how great my ass looks in the light-washed denim I’m wearing. I scoff and shake my head playfully before wiggling in his face. He nods his head emphatically, causing me to laugh.

Once we are in the door, I prompt Mark to leave his shoes next to mine. He looks around my small apartment with approval, noting that it feels very homey. That’s what everyone says about my apartment – that it’s _homey_. I always take it as a nice way of saying, “It’s really fucking small, but you’ve decorated it quite nicely, given your limitations.”

“Thanks,” I reply to his description as I pull ingredients out of my fridge. “It’s not everyone’s cup of tea, but the rent is reasonable and it’s not too far from the shop.”

What Mark doesn’t comment on is the fact that my apartment is a studio. It’s an open floor plan – something I’d never particularly enjoyed about it. Lace divider screens separate my bedroom from the rest of the living space, and the kitchen provides a whole five-feet of counter space. But, when you live alone, and you only cook for one person, I guess privacy and kitchen space doesn’t really matter.

“Pizza’s okay, right?” I ask as I arrange the ingredients on the counter. “I know we had it the last time we saw each other, but I’m a lover of pizza in general. Plus I make a badass homemade pizza.”

“It’s perfect,” he says. He walks into my living room and peruses my gallery wall, looking at the various canvases I had painted over time. “Did you do any of these?”

“Yeah,” I look up from washing the green pepper in my hands. “All of the canvases.”

“You’re really good,” he comments. I thank him and smile.

As Mark continues to look at my paintings and read the various titles on my bookshelf, I begin chopping ingredients for our pizza. In anticipation for tonight, I handcrafted the dough when I got home from work around three. While I cut vegetables, I hear Mark talking behind me.

“Hey, buddy,” he says.

I look up, surprised to see that Atticus has begun to weave in and out of Mark’s legs and is meowing softly at his feet. I gasp and watch the two of them interact, my heart swelling to the size of a cantaloupe, I’m sure.

“He’s _never_ this friendly with anybody. Especially men,” I inform him from my place in the kitchen. I don’t want to scare Atticus away from Mark, so I watch from afar as he sits down to pet him. Atticus immediately flops in Mark’s lap, and I let out a sound that’s similar to something a mother would say after her son’s first words.

“I have a way about me,” Mark smiles.

“Apparently so,” I say as he scratches my cat under his chin – his favorite spot to be scratched. “I’m serious. He hates everyone but me. He always hides under my bed whenever someone else comes over, and he’ll usually hiss at any male who gets near him. I really can’t believe he’s being this affectionate!”

As I make the pizza, Mark leans up against the counter and watches me complete all of the steps. We talk about our busy weeks as we sip on cold beer, laughing at how Atticus flops at Mark’s feet and exposes his stomach, instigating him to give him belly rubs.

“Did you make the dough yourself?” he asks as I knead it onto a pan.

“Yeah, it’s really simple,” I nod and move to itch my nose with the back of my hand, not wanting to get flour all over the place.

“It looks good,” he notes. He inches closer to me and kisses me on the temple, his hair brushing gently against mine. I look up at him and wink, pursing my lips so he kisses me before brushing the hair out of my face.

“You make me nervous,” I giggle. _Ugh,_ I think. _Quit giggling, you loser._

“Well, I shouldn’t,” he takes a sip of his beer. “I’m just a weirdo with a big ole crush on you.”

We continue our conversation as the pizza bakes, standing in the kitchen, leaning up against the counter, side-by-side. Tonight, it’s easy with Mark. I find myself not worrying about how my hair looks, about how my loud laughter may be perceived as _unladylike,_ about how I tell the stupidest jokes known to man.

While we eat, Mark is completely amazed with the pizza. I blush and thank him, but I’m not surprised – I’ve been perfecting my homemade pizza for the last couple of years, and now that I’ve got the recipe just the way I want it, it’s hard not to love. We sit in silence and eat our slices, sipping on beer and smiling at each other every now and then.

Mark helps me with the dishes, as my apartment doesn’t come equipped with a dishwasher. I wash, he dries. We stand next to each other, passing dishes in an assembly line of jokes and hip-bumps. Atticus sits at our feet, watching our every move, and at one point we both pause and wave at him.

Eventually, we decide to make our way to the couch, the beer we drank with dinner allowing us to be completely comfortable with one another. After perusing my DVD collection, we decide on _Fargo_. Getting situated on the couch, Mark pulls me to him so that my legs are draped over his lap and his right arm is wrapped around my torso. I sigh and lean into him, content with how right it feels to be with him.

An hour into the movie, after commenting on our favorite parts and moving closer to one another as the plot thickened, I look at Mark, the light from the television playing off of his face. His hair was effortlessly fussed, and as he ran his left hand through it, I suddenly had the undeniable urge to jump his bones and never look back.

“Hi,” I whisper, barely louder than the dialogue in the movie.

Mark shifts his head to meet my eyes, a slight smile forming on his lips. “Hi,” he replies. His hand has moved to my inner thigh and for a moment, I wonder if he can feel the warmth that’s begun to form where the tips of his fingers are.

Our eyes lock for another moment before I shift onto his lap, my knees on either side of his hips. With light emanating from the TV behind me, I place my hand on the nape of his neck, toying with the short hairs found there. We both smile at each other while Mark’s hands rest on my hips, his lissome fingers applying the slightest pressure.

“I’m glad you’re here,” I say.

“I’m glad I am, too.”

He raises his face to mine, and before doing anything else, he smiles into me. The hops on his breath mix with mine while he slips the hair around my face behind my ears. I bite my lip and he looks into my eyes, nodding slightly before placing his lips onto mine. Without being able to stop myself, a small moan escapes into his lips when we finally make contact with one another – a noise that causes Mark to pull me in closer to him.

He kisses me like he has something to prove – like he’s worried I’m going to run away if he doesn’t keep me right here, right in this moment with him. I place both of my hands on either side of his face and run my fingertips over the scruff he’s had since the first time I saw him. His lips taste slightly salty from the pizza, his tongue flavored with the beer the two of us drank. He drags his upper lip across mine and shivers slightly when I run my finger over his jawline.

A constant, steady flutter begins in my stomach, and I increase the pressure of my kisses in an attempt to avoid feeling it. I know what this means. It’s the feeling that I always get around Mark, but this time, it doesn’t go away after a few moments. Instead, it sticks around. It wants to be noticed – to have me acknowledge it. It wants me to succumb to its weight. It wants me to admit my feelings for Mark; to admit that I’m falling for him and that I’m terrified of what that means.

It’s more than the fact that he’s a good kisser. It’s more than the fact that he’s a _phenomenal_ kisser. Anyone can be a good kisser, but it’s the way that Mark holds me. It’s how he looks at me before dragging me into him; it’s how he gently brushes a stray hair off of my forehead when he pulls away for a breath; it’s how he takes his time and doesn’t rush it like I’m some sort of sexual object made for his pleasure instead of an actual human.

I can feel it in the way his tongue lightly sweeps across mine; in the way his fingers dance their way across my forearms before making their way to my wrists, to my palms, and then laces his fingers with mine; in the way he breathes me in and out; in the way he pulls away from my lips and places his forehead onto mine in an attempt to calm himself down; in the way he shifts beneath me.

_That_ is the flutter. And you would be terrified if you felt it, too.

“Amelia,” Mark mumbles, his fingers entwined with my hair.

“Mark,” I whisper, the light from the TV illuminating the sides of his face.

“I’m falling for you,” he responds, and with the way he’s looking at me, I can tell he means it.

Before I admit it to him – before I admit it to _myself_ – I lean down to him and kiss him once more. We’re a combination of sighs, moans, and messy hair as we entangle ourselves on my couch, becoming one entity, rather than two. After allowing myself to be consumed by this world for a few minutes longer, I pull away from him, knowing he’s just as turned on as I am. The bulge between his legs doesn’t lie.

“Can I be honest with you?” I ask.

“Of course,” he nods and kisses my knuckles – all ten of them – so delicately, it’s enough to make me want to cry.

“I’m worried that…” I start, knowing that there’s no elegant way to say it. “I’m worried that if we sleep together tonight, that you’ll leave. You’ll leave and I won’t ever see you again because you got what you wanted and there’s no other reason to stick around.”

Mark pauses his kisses against my palms and looks me in the eyes. His brow furrows and he gives me a confused look. “Wait, what?”

“It’s not anything against you,” I try to explain. “I just don’t want us to have sex and then for you to be like, ready to leave just because you’ve got-”

“Amelia,” he interrupts, the tone of his voice making me shut up immediately. “What are you _talking_ about? First of all, who said we’re having sex tonight?”

I look at him skeptically, not knowing what to say.

“Not that I wouldn’t love to have sex with you tonight. But is it because of this whole third date rule bullshit?”

“Rebecca said…” I look at him again, but this time with a hint of desperation. I don’t want to have to explain it to him.

“Look. My friends pressured me about the same thing,” he starts. Before he can continue to tell his story, I quickly throw a victory party for myself in my head – _he told his friends about me!_ “But they’re not me, and they’re not you. They don’t get to decide when we have sex. We have sex when we want to have sex. When it’s a good time for _both_ of us.”

I nod in response.

“And sex is not even close to everything I want from you. Did you really think that I was going to hit it and quit it?”

I choke back laughter at his choice of words, but compose myself when I understand how serious he is about what he’s saying. “No,” I reply. “I don’t think that. I wouldn’t think that about _you_ , but I’ve thought that before, and it’s turned out horribly for me.”

“Okay, well,” he begins, leaning back further into the couch. He grabs my wrists lightly and shakes them a bit before continuing. “I’m not other guys, and I don’t know what the fuck their problems are, but you are the last girl I would sleep with and leave. I’m not that kind of guy, first of all, and second of all, sex is not what I want from you.”

I frown slightly at his confession, and he instantaneously amends himself.

“I want to have sex with you. Holy shit, do I want to have sex with you. But I don’t want to if you’re not comfortable with it, and I especially don’t want to if it’s because our friends want us to,” he says. “We will have sex. But it won’t be tonight, and it’s not because I don’t want to. I do. I just really want our friends to be wrong. And after we do have sex, I’m not going to leave. I’m going to stick around, preferably for a very long time, and have sex with you again, and again, and again.”

I laugh as his hands make their way up my thighs, increasing in pressure with each inch they move.

“Okay,” I say against his lips. “Okay.”

As the night went on, the fluttering became stronger. It turned into a stable thumping in my heart, the kind that rattles your ribcage and is so loud, you can’t seem to focus on anything else. Every time Mark would move to kiss me, the thumping would start up again, causing me to go lightheaded and woozy for a few moments.

When we fall asleep next to each other, every part of our bodies touching one another, the constant rhythm of the knocking lulls me into the belief that regardless of my fighting it, I would never be able to ignore what Mark was making me feel.

That rhythm? That was the rhythm of falling in love.


	8. Chapter Eight

The light that was streaming into the kitchen was fading in the unhurried way the sun disappears in the summer, and while I listened to my mother babble on, I gazed out the kitchen window and into the backyard. My mother, ever since she retired, found great interest in manicuring her gardens on a daily basis.

“What I don’t understand,” she continued, “is how your brother has found so much success and you’re okay with just idling.”

I look at her - the woman who birthed me - and will myself not to gouge her eyes out. How many times had we had this conversation? How many times did I have to explain to her that my brother is a whole _five years_ older than I am and he found success in tech startups in Silicon Valley? How many times do I have to explain to her that I’m not _idling,_ I am _living_?

“I’m happy.” I state without explaining myself.

After making the two-hour drive from Los Angeles to Bakersfield this morning, the last thing I wanted to do was listen to my mother complain about how much potential I had and how I threw it all away to work in a bookstore.

“Don’t you want more for yourself?!” my mom groans, throwing her hands up above her head.

“Yes!” I half-shout. “Mom, I’ve told you. I want to own my own bookstore someday.”

“And you can’t do that without having a business degree! You have half of a degree in Literature. That won’t teach you how to run a business. Why can’t you go back to school? You _love_ school!”

“Okay, yeah. I loved school. But I don’t love how expensive it is, and I’m already in so much debt just from those two years that I completed right out of high school,” I take a sip of my after-dinner coffee, hoping that I won’t have to explain myself again.

“And you know how awful I feel about that,” she reaches across the table and pats my forearm with her soft fingers. “But after the divo-”

“I know,” I cut her off. “You and Dad used mine and Adam’s college funds to pay for the divorce. I get it. I understand it. And I’m not mad about it - really. I’m not. But I’d like to pay for the two years of college I’ve already done before I go back and get two more.”

“Just promise me that you won’t give up on school,” she says, her wide eyes beaming at me in the dusk of the evening. “Please.”

“I won’t give up on school,” I promise her. “Just let me do things on my own time. And remember, Margaret doesn’t have a degree, and she’s doing wonderfully.”

“Margaret has also been at it for a good forty years longer than you have, and she’s got a very wealthy husband, to boot,” my mother looks over the rim of her coffee cup at me, her eyebrows raised.

“Okay, so, my boss having a wealthy husband and widely successful businesses across the country have nothing to do with each other. She’s worked hard, and she’s teaching me a lot,” I say.

“I get that, honey. I just want you to have the best life possible, and right now, I don’t know if you’re accomplishing that.”

“By your standards, Mom! Trust me, I am happy. I’m almost deliriously happy. I don’t know if being this happy is legal, even,” I lean back in the chair of my mother’s dinette and sigh.

She goes into how I’m closer to thirty than I am to twenty and that I should be taking my life a lot more seriously than I am. I fade in and out of the conversation, letting my mom talk about how she had so much more imagined for me than being the manager of a bookstore and living in a dinky apartment in the outskirts of LA.

Really, what my mother wants, is grandchildren. She wants me to get married, have kids, and then stay home and raise them. This was her dream, not mine. She had always wanted to be a stay-at-home-mom, have tons of kids, live on a farm - which, to me, would be a nightmare. Some part of her must think that because she had to work, had only two kids, and lived in modern-day suburbia that I have to be the one to follow her dream.

“You’re too smart not to have at least a bachelor’s degree. And you’re too pretty to be single!”

I choose, carefully, not to bring up Mark. I had full intentions of disclosing everything about my relationship to her, knowing that she would be on cloud nine that I was actually in a relationship. Although that relationship is undefined, it’s still a relationship of some sort. However, after an entire afternoon of her telling me that my life was in shambles, I didn’t want to tell her _anything_ about Mark. I just wanted to go home.

“You know that it was never an option for you not to go to college. I just don’t understand how you’re twenty-six years old and you still don’t have a degree. Didn’t your dad and I raise you to value education? To value the learning experience?”

“Yes, Mom. Obviously you did. Circumstances come up. I never said that I wouldn’t ever get a degree. I’m planning on it, but I don’t really have the resources to go back to school right now.”

“I just feel like you’d have such a better life if you got a degree and a real job,” my mother is exasperated, which in turn causes me to be angrier than before.

“A real job?! What, is my job right now fake? You act like I have a horrible life. You act like I’m a lesser class of human because I don’t have a degree,” I nearly yell.

“That’s not what I mean at all, Mimi. You know I don’t think any less of you because of the fact that you don’t have a degree,” and I shoot her a look that says otherwise. “What?! I don’t! I just want you to be successful and have the li-”

“Mom,” I stop her before she can say anything further. “I think I should head home. It’s almost eight o'clock and I have a two-hour drive back.”

“Well, you could always stay the night here and go home tomorrow,” she suggested.

“No,” I shake my head as I make my way out of the kitchen. “I have to go into the shop at ten and I want to get some stuff done around my apartment before I go to work. Thanks for dinner,” I kiss her on the cheek. “It was delicious, as always.”

“Amelia,” she says in her “serious” voice after grabbing hold to my shoulders. I look her in the eyes as she lowers her brow. “You know how much I love you, right? And I only want what’s best for you.”

“I love you too, Mom,” I say as I reach for the doorknob.

“Call me when you get back?”

“Of course.”

And with that, my mother closes her front door, and I make my way to my car. As soon as I start my car, tears begin to well up in my eyes. I didn’t know why I felt compelled to cry - it wasn’t the first time my mother told me these things, and it most certainly wasn’t going to be the last.

I suppose I thought it would be different, seeing her this time. We talked on the phone quite often, but I only got to see her once every couple of months or so. For some reason, I figured that because she hadn’t said anything about the status of my life recently, I wouldn’t have to hear her lecture me during our visit.

Backing out of the driveway, I allowed myself to cry until I got to the interstate. Once I made my way onto the entrance ramp, I pulled myself together enough to grab my cell phone.

“Hello?” Mark’s voice rang through my phone, and at the sound of it, I begin to choke up again.

“Hi,” I say softly, hoping to mask the tears in my voice.

“What’s wrong?” he asks, sounding genuinely worried.

“I just left my mom’s house,” I begin. “And I don’t actually know why I’m upset. We didn’t get into a fight or anything, but I’m just over disappointing her all the time. She’s not happy with how my life is going.”

“Wait, what? How is your life going? Is your life not good?”

“I guess not,” I sniffle, trying to maintain composure. Talking on the phone, driving, and crying all of the time isn’t the safest thing in the world. “Can I come over?” And while I wasn’t even planning on asking it, I don’t want to go back to my apartment.

“Yes,” Mark says. “Of course you can come over. How far away from LA are you?”

“Bakersfield, so about two hours. I’ll be there around ten. That’s not too late?”

“No, no. Not at all.”

“Okay. Thank you.”

“Amelia?” he asks.

“Yeah?”

“You’re not a disappointment.”

“Thank you,” I smile through my tears, hanging up the phone.

Mark texts me his address, just in case I forgot how to get there by memory. For the next two hours, I drive in silence, wondering if there was anything I could do to convince my mom that I’m trying to make her proud of me. Shouldn’t it be enough that I’m happy? Shouldn’t it be enough that I’m successful in what I do? If I’m happy with my life, why can’t my mom be happy for me?

I feel like I’ve gone over this a thousand times with my mom. Every time, it’s the same thing. At this point, the only thing that will make her satisfied with my life choices is for me to get a pointless degree, get married to a man I don’t love, pop out a few kids, and stay at home the rest of my life, barefoot and pregnant.

When I pull into Mark’s driveway, I’m more upset than before. I’ve stopped crying, but I’m very nearly outraged by the fact that my mom isn’t happy with my life. As if it’s her life to live, as if she’s the one who needs to be satisfied with how things are going.

I ring Mark’s doorbell and hear him rush down the stairs before turning on the light in the foyer. He opens the door and his hair swishes back by the opening of the door.

“Hello!” he greets, the muscle of his bicep moving underneath his skin as he places his arm against the door frame. I glance at it quickly before meeting his eyes.

“Hi,” I smile meekly. Although I’m in a bad mood, seeing him instantaneously makes me feel better.

“Come in,” he opens the door so that I can pass through the threshold and closes the door behind us.

I turn to him after slipping my shoes off and sigh. He frowns and pulls me into a tight hug that automatically puts me at ease. I spread my hands across his broad shoulders, feeling the softness of his t-shirt beneath my palms. He holds me to him by my neck, rubbing the nape of it with his thumb. We stand in our embrace for a good minute and a half, not saying anything.

I move my head so that my chin is placed on his chest, looking up at him. “Thank you for letting me come over.”

“Of course,” he smiles, placing a soft kiss on my lips.

I smirk, tasting fresh toothpaste on his breath, and apologize for how mine must taste - I should’ve thought to bring chewing gum with me after drinking the coffee at my mom’s house.

“Do you want to talk about it?” he asks me, and at first, I think we’re talking about my coffee breath, but then I realize that he’s referring to what happened with my mom.

“Actually,” I sigh, “not really. Is that okay?”

“Perfectly okay,” Mark replies.

“Can I use your bathroom really quick? It was a long drive,” I smirk, releasing myself from his embrace.

He laughs and lets me go.

While I’m in the bathroom, I frown at how tired I look. I feel tired, yes, but I’d rather not _look_ like I’m tired. My hair is flat, my makeup has worn off, and the darkness under my eyes makes me look about five years older than I actually am. Fluffing up my hair, I pinch my cheeks to regain some color in them.

Making my way out of the bathroom, I walk to the living room of Mark’s house, smiling when I see him sprawled out on the couch. I plop down next to him and he places his arm around my shoulders, pulling me in close.

“I know you don’t want to talk about it,” Mark says as he rubs my arm. “But at least tell me if you’re going to be okay.”

All of the sudden, just like earlier, my eyes begin to fill with tears again. I nod my head in response and look away and up to the ceiling, hoping that no tears fall. I stay silent for a few more moments before looking at Mark in the eyes, and at the contact, the first tear falls down my cheek.

“Don’t cry,” he says as he pulls me into another hug, this time tighter. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make you cry. I’m sorry.”

I cry quietly into his shoulder, completely embarrassed at myself. What about today was making me so emotional? If I was being honest with myself, I was worried that my relationship with my mother wouldn’t ever be the same if I didn’t meet her expectations. Mark was the last person I wanted to get weirdly emotional around, especially so quickly into our relationship. Whatever that relationship may be.

“I’m sorry,” I say as I lift my head off of his shoulder. “I hate crying. Why am I crying?” I laugh as I wipe away my tears. “This is stupid. So many red flags are probably going off in your mind right now. Who cries in front of a guy before they’re even your boyfriend? Sorry. I’m such a mess.”

“Don’t be sorry. You can cry to me whenever you need to, okay?” he sweeps the hair that’s fallen in my face behind my ears and kisses my forehead. “And that whole boyfriend thing? Should we amend that?”

I wipe the final tears from my cheeks and smile at him. “Are you asking me to be your giiiiiiirlfriend?” I grin at him, placing both of my hands on either of his cheeks. “Do you want to daaaate me?”

“Yes,” he laughs, a wholehearted sound that comes from his stomach. “I am asking you to be my girlfriend, and yes, I do want to date you.”

I laugh and kiss him square on the lips four times in a row, and before I know it, Mark has leaned back and pulls me on top of him, his arms completely encircled around my torso. I laugh into his neck as he playfully bites my shoulder, not letting me go from his grasp.

“I knew you’d make me feel better,” I sigh as our laughter dissipates, lifting my neck up so I can look him in the eyes. “Thank you for letting me come over.”

“You’re welcome,” he smiles as he moves his hand so that it’s resting on the back of my neck, massaging my head softly. “I was worried about you.”

I nod, and before my eyes can well up with tears again, I kiss his chin and eventually his lips, slowly increasing the pressure of my lips on top of his. His left hand grips my neck while his right hand rubs up and down my back, stopping at my hip and gripping slightly. I relax, and allow myself to put my bodyweight on top of him, resting completely on his torso.

As Mark kisses me, the flutter in my stomach returns, but this time, I welcome it. After the hours spent listening to my mother lecture me on and off about my life, it was so good to be around someone who didn’t think I was a total failure. I could relax into Mark’s embrace, into his kisses, into his slight moans, into his crazy hair between my fingers. I could give my all to him without worrying about letting him down.

“Baby,” I say, lifting myself away from his kiss.

He stares at me, once again sweeping my hair behind my ears. “Your eyes are so beautiful,” he whispers, and his thumb grazes over my temple in such a gentle way, I can barely feel it.

“I want you,” I bite my lip and run my hand over his hair in an attempt to calm the dark waves.

“I want you too,” he nods, and we both stand up from the couch together.

Mark takes my hand and leads me to his bedroom. The entire time, my heart races as our bare feet take the path to his room, pitter-pattering down the hall in soft echoes that match my pulse. He looks back at me, smiles, and wiggle his eyebrows. It’s the exact gesture I need to put me at ease, and I respond to him by wiggling mine back.

Once we get into the room, he shuts the door quietly behind me. An unneeded gesture, as Mark lives alone and the only company he has at the current moment is me, but I understand his thought-process. Closing the door ensures that our world, our small, quiet world, will be only ours. No chance of the moment slipping away from us, through the door and down the hallway, out of the house and onto the freeway. No, this moment will be ours to keep.

Mark sits down on his bed, but before I make my way over to him, I begin to take off my clothes, slowly. The tension of the day escapes from my body with every piece of clothing I shed, and with Mark’s gaze held tightly to my own, my heart beats faster and faster with each passing second. I smile at him when I unclasp my bra, wink when I lower my panties down around my ankles. He takes in a sharp breath and allows him gaze to fall across my bare body.

“You are,” he whispers, “so gorgeous.”

I slowly walk to him, placing both of my knees on either side of his lap, and begin to kiss him again. His palms make their way to my back, his long, steady fingers splay out across my shoulder blades. I sigh into our kiss, loving the feeling of his warm tongue against mine. We stay in this position for quite a while as he explores my body, each curve, every path his finger takes leaving a trail of goosebumps behind.

When he lays me down gently on his bed so that I’m underneath him, he smiles at me in a way that allows me to know that I can trust him. His eyes, bright and telling, reassure me that he is exactly who I am supposed to be with at this very moment in time. As I aide him in undressing, the heat of his skin beneath his clothes takes my breath away. The smoothness of his chest, the width of his collarbone, the ease of his forearms - it’s all nearly too much for me, but I take it all in, wondering if I have ever felt this close to a person; this connected to another being.

“Amelia,” he says chastely, kissing my neck and chest.

“Mark,” I respond breathily, running my fingers through his hair and down his arms.

When we finally allow ourselves to let go, to become one, neither of us are quite sure what to do. We find our rhythm, we breathe each other in, we lace our fingers together and grip one another tightly at the feeling. He calls out my name once again, and I respond with his, unable to control the sensations that are searing within my core.

When it’s finished, I settle into the crook of his arm, and without saying a word, we both drift off into a sleep, our heartbeats syncopating, neither of us realizing that somewhere in the universe, two atoms aligned and allowed us to find ourselves within each other.


	9. Chapter Nine

“Hello?” Rebecca answers after two rings – typical for her.

“Hey,” I respond. “I didn’t wake you, did I?”

“You fucked him!” she shouts so loud that it frightens me. “You had sex! You boned him! You totally did, I can hear it in your voice. Matt! Amelia went to Poundtown last night!”

I audibly groan, none too pleased with the fact that my best friend’s fiancé knows that I just got laid, but I can’t help but laugh. Rebecca’s happier than I am at the news, which is impressive, considering I haven’t been able to quit smiling since I woke up.

“Calm down,” I laugh. “Yes, we had sex.”

“How was it? Details, please. Is it going to happen again? Soon?”

“Rebecca,” I start. “Breathe.”

“Don’t you tell me to breathe! Dish the goddamn dirt, bitch.”

“Okay, okay. It was amazing. I was really upset when I got to his place. You know how I went to see my mom? Well, it ended like most visits with my mom end. So I called Mark and asked if I could come ov-”

“Did he wipe your tears and brush your hair off of your forehead?” Rebecca cuts me off. “I don’t need _these_ kinds of details, Amelia. I need length, width, girth, stamina, etcetera, etcetera.”

“Jesus Christ,” I mumble under my breath. “Thought I’d just let you know how _well_ a guy is treating me for once, rather than a good ole slap on the ass and high five after a good lay.”

“Yeah, yeah. That’s all fine and dandy. I’m glad Mark’s got feelings,” Rebecca says, and I can just picture the hand gestures she’s conjuring on the other side of the phone. “Dish, you slut. Dish!”

“He was of very satisfactory size. No weird curves or disproportionate accessories.”

“Accessories?”

“Yeah.”

“What, does his penis have a charm bracelet and a fuckin’ infinity scarf?”

“No,” I laugh. “Y'know. The berries.”

“Are you talking about balls? Matt! Amelia just called testicles ‘accessories’!”

“Fuck, Rebecca! Quit saying this shit to Matt!”

“Get over yourself. I just want the dirty details. Did you come?”

“Yes.”

“Vaginally?”

“I’m hanging up.”

“No! No. Don’t do that. Sorry. I’ll quit being so invasive. Did he finish really quickly?”

“Oh my God,” I groan. “No. He made sure I was taken care of before he finished. It wasn’t quick enough that I wondered what the hell happen, but wasn’t slow enough that I got bored. Perfect amount of foreplay and perfect amount of boning.”

“Ey!” she cheers. “There ya go, kid. I’m proud of you.”

After dodging the rest of Rebecca’s invasive questions, I hang up the whole with her and focus on my driving. With the memory of the night before playing over and over again in my head, I can’t help but smile as I make my way home.

A lot of people talk about how sex is the most intimate two people can get with one another. I disagree. You can have sex with anyone – you meet them on a night out, bring them back to your apartment, have a roll in the hay, and then boot them out an hour later. You can pay for sex in any city in the world, I’m willing to bet. Sex isn’t intimate unless you make it intimate.

To me, holding someone’s hand is the most intimate thing two people can do with each other. You really have to _know_ someone to hold their hand. Think about it. What if you went to a bar and the only thing you were looking for that night was to go back to someone’s place and hold their hand? It just wouldn’t happen. Nobody looks for that. Nobody puts out personal ads for hand-holding. You hold hands with people you’re sure about – people you want to stick around for a long time.

That’s why, this morning, my heart felt completely at ease with lying in bed with Mark, our hands intertwined between the two of us as the sun rose outside of his bedroom window. We turned to face each other, smiling at one another’s bed head, drifting in and out of sleep. He would pull me closer and whisper “You’re so beautiful,” into my hair, kissing the crook of my neck just below my ear. I would sigh, not remembering a time when I had been _this_ happy.

When I mentioned that I should probably get going because I wanted to get into the shop by ten, Mark groaned and moved on top of me, declaring that he wasn’t going to let me leave. My giggles dissolved into his kiss while I moved my hands down the back of his spine, his warm skin moving underneath my fingertips.

The two of us make love again and it’s different than the night before. This time, instead of feeling awkward and misplaced at first, I breathe Mark in, gripping his biceps and arch into his chest while he thrusts into me. Our bodies move together, creating goosebumps on my skin, and I moan frequently with pleasure beneath him. This time, we are more playful with one another, nipping at each other’s shoulders and necks and smiling into one another’s collarbones. When Mark bends his head to kiss my breasts, I let out a shaky breath and mumble “Jesus Christ,” making him smile around the peaks on my chest.

I reach my orgasm, hooking my legs around Mark’s waist, tightly gripping his wrists while I close my eyes, allowing the sensation to rip through my body. Never feeling so close to another person, I furrow my brow at the pleasure, a whimper escaping my pursed mouth. “Yes, baby,” he whispers. “Yes.”

We laid in bed together for another half hour, drawing imaginary circles on one another’s skin, talking about how much we didn’t want to move from the exact spot we were in. I thanked him again for letting me come over the previous night, once again apologizing for crying. Mark, of course, tells me to quit apologizing. He likes the fact that I’m comfortable enough with him to go to him when I’m sad, and I admit that I like it, too. Even if it does scare the shit out of me.

When we finally force ourselves out of bed, Mark helps me gather my scattered clothing. I thank him with a chuckle, and we make our way out to my car. Before saying goodbye, we kiss slowly against my car, he in his bare feet and sweatpants, me in my rumpled day-before clothes.

“You’re sure about this whole girlfriend thing?” Mark asks before shutting my door for me. “You _really_ want to be my girlfriend?”

“Yes,” I laugh. “I really, really do. Why? Don’t you want me to be your girlfriend?”

“Oh, absolutely,” he puffs out his chest. “Now all my friends can be jealous of not only my good looks, muscles, and amazing gaming skills, they can be jealous of my mega-hot babe-a-licious girlfriend, too.”

“Go inside,” I roll my eyes, swatting his arm. “Go before I change my mind!”

“Okay!” he bends down and kisses me on the lips quickly before slamming my door and sprinting all the way inside, never looking back once.

I smile as I recall the image now as I drive. I think about how comfortable I feel with Mark, about how I feel like I don’t have to be somebody else when I’m around him. I look at him and I know that I’m accepted – I know that I don’t have to put on a front; I don’t have to apologize for who I am.

Last night, just as we were falling asleep next to one another for the first time, we talked about how everyone had precise expectations for us. How my parents wanted me to be a doctor, considering how easily I succeeded in academics. They knew my work ethic was strong and wanted to me to live a life of comfort due to my career choice. My mom and dad pushed me to go to college and major in something I got no actual joy from, and I appeased them for a single semester before switching to what actually made me happy: books.

As I spoke, Mark wrapped me in his arms, allowing me to rest my head on his chest and feel his heartbeat against my cheek. He kissed the crown of my head, assuring me that I was not a failure simply because I didn’t finish school and become a doctor like my parents wanted me to. “You are the most beautiful, thoughtful, and intelligent person I know,” he whispers. I ask him how he knows that already when we’ve been seeing each other for only three weeks, and he responds with, “When you know, you know.”

Mark tells me about his struggle figuring out who he wanted to be. He explains the running joke of “I could’ve been an engineer!” and how it took a while for him to be comfortable joking around about it. He knew that he had disappointed his parents, and while he was the happiest he had ever been due to his choice in career change, he couldn’t help but have a small nagging feeling in the back of his chest whenever he thought about what could’ve been.

“Yeah, but you’re so successful,” I say, kissing his sternum.

“Part of me thinks that my mom still believes this is just a phase and that I’ll go back to school one day,” he smirks. “But I’m happy with where I’m at,” he rubs my arms and pulls me further up to him so that my nose is resting just beneath his jaw. I breathe him in, the scruff on his chin tickling the tip of my nose. “Are you happy?” he asks.

“With where I’m at?” I ask. “Yes. I’m _very_ happy.”

We kiss again, my hand coming to rest on his right cheek, his body moving beneath me so that he has a better angle towards my mouth. I sigh into the kiss, that ever-present feeling beginning to thump deep beneath my ribcage again.

I park outside the post office to grab my mail from my PO Box, physically shaking the images of last night out of my head. Once I moved to LA from Bakersfield, I thought it would be easier to have PO Box, rather than having to change my address every time I moved. Living with various roommates in different stages of their lives could get complicated, and I got used to moving every six months or so. Even though I now lived on my own, I was too lazy to change from my PO Box. It was much easier to stop by every couple of days on my way home than to have to switch my address.

I grin when I get back to my car and rifle through my stack of mail, seeing Jake’s printing on an envelope. While I wrote my letters to him on monogrammed stationery and mailed them in ornate envelopes, he corresponded with lined notebook paper and standard white envelopes. He made fun of me for my attention to detail, and I made fun of him for his lack thereof. The contrast between our epistles was somewhat laughable, but it spoke to who we are, I like to think.

I open the letter right away, eager to know his response to my previous correspondence.

DEAR AMELIA,

I WOULDN’T SAY THAT I’M THE ONLY PERSON WHO UNDERSTANDS YOU. I’M SURE OTHER PEOPLE UNDERSTAND YOU JUST FINE. IF I’M THE ONLY PERSON WHO REALLY UNDERSTANDS YOU, WE’VE GOT TO GET YOU SOME HELP. ARE YOU IN LOVE WITH ME, AMELIA? ARE YOU?

MY OUTLOOK ON LIFE ALLOWS ME TO BE SENTIMENTAL WITHOUT BEING OVERTLY OPTIMISTIC. I TRY TO SEE ALL THE GOOD IN OTHERS AS I CAN, BUT SOMETIMES IT TAKES MORE EFFORT THAN AN INTIAL GLANCE. I CAN TELL THAT YOU ARE A GENUINELY GOOD PERSON WHO DESERVES GENUINELY GOOD HAPPENINGS IN HER LIFE. HOWEVER, YOU WORRY FAR TOO MUCH ABOUT WHAT OTHERS THINK OF YOU. YOU HAVE TO START CARING ABOUT WHAT YOU THINK OF YOURSELF MORE THAN WHAT OTHERS THINK OF YOU.

I APPRECIATE THE SENTIMENT, BUT NO, I AM NOT HESISTANT TO MEET BECAUSE I’M A HORRIBLY UGLY TROLL AND WOULD BE EMBARRASSED TO SHOW YOU MY TRUE SELF. I AM, IN ACTUALITY, THE MOST HANDSOME MAN YOU WILL EVER MEET AND TAKE GREAT OFFENSE TO THE FACT THAT YOU DARED TO IMPLY THAT I AM ANYTHING LESS.

I’M HAVING A TOUGH TIME WITH THE FACT THAT YOU WANT TO MEET. I WORRY THAT AFTER, WE MAY NOT HAVE AS GOOD OF A RELATIONSHIP AS WE DO NOW. WE’D MOST LIKELY STOP WRITING LETTERS TO ONE ANOTHER, WHICH DEFEATS THE PURPOSE OF HAVING A PENPAL. I’M NOT OPPOSING THE IDEA COMPLETELY, BUT I THINK THAT WE SHOULD REALLY ASK OURSELVES IF THIS IS WHAT WE WANT BEFORE WE PULL THE TRIGGER.

GODSPEED,

JAKE

I immediately frown after reading his response. Glancing over his words again, I begin to feel tears prick at my eyes. Why doesn’t he want to meet? I’ve always felt that I cared more about our letters than Jake did – he probably threw all of his away the second he finished reading them – but I never thought that he wouldn’t want to meet one day.

We had been writing each other over the past year. Was he really surprised by the fact that I wanted to meet him? We lived in the same city, for Christ’s sake. We could’ve passed each other on the street thousands of times without either of us knowing it. We both had PO Boxes, and I had no idea where Jake lived, but the possibility that we could be living our lives side-by-side was not lost on me.

Jake had always been rather standoffish about his life. I didn’t know exactly what he did for work, nor did I know all that much about his family. He never mentioned roommates or dating anyone. He seemed, almost, like a recluse. We talked more about me than we did about him, come to realize it.

I bit my lip and drove away from the post office, perplexed at Jake’s lack of eagerness to meet. And, really, did I blame him? He did have a point. We’re pen pals. Once we meet, the excitement of our communication would most likely wear off and we’d have to find new pen pals. And I _liked_ having Jake as a pen pal. So why did I suggest meeting up?

Maybe, through Jake’s encouragement, I had finally built up enough security within myself to create an actual friendship with Jake? Maybe now that I was turning a corner – that I felt like I really didn’t have to take what other people said to heart - I could conjure up a relationship with Jake further than the page. I wanted to see his face, to know the man behind the block print, to finally sit down with him over coffee and _talk_ about how messed up the world was, rather than just write about it.

As I parked my car and made my way up to my apartment, Jake’s first question stood out in my mind more than anything. _Are you in love with me, Amelia? Are you?_

I don’t know if I can honestly answer that question. It was ridiculous, the notion that I could have feelings for someone I hadn’t ever met before. Jake, openly calling me out on it, was obviously joking. I hope. And if he weren’t joking, would he be okay with the fact that I might be in love with him? How would he feel knowing that I had developed feelings for him?

My phone dings in my purse, notifying me of a text message. I pull it out and glance at my screen, my heart jumping when I see that it’s from Mark. _Fuck_ , I think. _Mark!_

**_You’re SURE you want to be my girlfriend? Because there’s still time to back out…_ ** **;)**

I curse at the message and sit down on the steps to my apartment. I begin to cry as I read over Jake’s letter, the words _Are you in love with me, Amelia? Are you?_ jumping out at me like they know their significance – they know the can of worms they have opened.


	10. Chapter Ten

“Why didn’t you tell me your birthday was June 28th?!“ I nearly scream into the phone when Mark picks up on the other end.

"Hello to you, too,” he laughs.

“I’m serious! Why didn’t you tell me that I missed your birthday?!”

“Because I didn’t think that it was that big of a deal,” he begins to explain himself. “Plus, you didn’t miss my birthday. I saw you on my birthday.”

“You did?”

“Yeah,” he says. “That was the second time I saw you. I came into the store to tell you about _I Know This Much is True_ and to get more book recommendations.”

“Oh,” I say, frowning. “Well why didn’t you tell me that it was your birthday then? I would’ve given you our 50% off birthday coupon!”

“I don’t need a coupon,” Mark chuckles. “It’s really not that big of a deal.”

“Yes it is!” I whine, running my fingers through my hair. “Birthdays are _so_ important. I love birthdays! I feel bad now.”

“Well don’t,” he says, and by the way his voice sounds, I can tell that he’s smiling.

I decide right then that I have to remedy the situation that evening. I scramble my brain, wondering what I could get him that wouldn’t suggest that I have an unhealthy obsession with him. Maybe _he_ doesn’t think birthdays are important, but _I_ do, and really, that’s all that matters.

I figure that he doesn’t _need_ anything – because let’s be honest – I’ve seen his house. I’ve been in his car. I’ve gaped at the bill when we’ve gone out to eat, insisting that I pay for half of our indulgences, only to be shot down by Mark insisting that it’s _his_ _treat_. So, really, what can I get the man who has everything?

“Come over tonight,” I say, my voice brightening at my idea. “Are you free?”

“Uhh,” he starts, giggling slightly. “Yes. We have reservations at the new Creole place downtown.”

“Oh, shit, yeah,” I roll my eyes at my own forgetfulness, resisting the urge to slap my own forehead. “Cancel them. Please. I mean, only if you want to. But I have a better idea.”

“You sure? You’re the one who insisted on me making the reservation last week…”

“I know, but I was a lot younger and more naïve then,” I smirk. “But yes, I’m sure. Instead of picking me up, park and come up. I’ll leave the door unlocked. Same time, though – seven, right?”

“Right,” he says, and I can tell he’s almost worried about whatever ideas I’ve conjured up, but I appreciate his going along with it, anyway.

“Okay, cool. I’ll see you then.”

“Do you need me to bring anything?” he asks before I hang up.

“No! No. Just yourself,” I smile at how my heart flutters at the mere thought of seeing him again. That feeling – that familiar thump that occurs only when I think of Mark – spreads over me, a spark of excitement jolting my system.

Once we hang up, I get to work, making a quick list of what I’ll need from the store. My heart races as I jot down ingredients I’ve run out of, thinking about how lovely it will be to celebrate Mark’s birthday in the heat of the summer, with nothing to worry about besides whether or not the food tastes good.

I decide on making steak, asparagus, and redskin potatoes. An easy, delicious meal that doesn’t require too much effort. After going to the market that’s within walking distance from my apartment, I marinate the steaks in a dry rub my dad makes.

Atticus jumps off of the windowsill and walks lazily over to me. He weaves in and out of my legs as I stand at the counter, purring loud enough so I can hear him. I smile at how warm he is after taking a catnap in the sun, pleased that he still loves me as much as the day I adopted him.

While the steaks marinate, I busy myself with gathering the supplies I’ll need for the night. Opening the window, I step out onto the roof, telling Atticus that I’ll be right back. I set everything in place and return, assuring the gray and white cat at my feet that everything will be okay.

Although I showered this morning before I went into work, I shower again, always worried that I won’t smell as fresh as Mark does. How is it that he always smells _so_ good? It’s not even his cologne – he puts that on sparingly so that I only smell traces of it when I kiss his cheek or hug him tight to me. It’s how he always smells like he just came in from outside, renewed and airy, in a way that makes me feel at home whenever he’s around.

I debated shaving, but I eventually caved in. Although we had been in an “official” relationship for more than two weeks, the relationship wasn’t mature enough for me to have stubble on my legs. The whole thing about ladyscaping – it’s just a bunch of bullshit, really. If I’m honest, I hate shaving. I’m lucky enough to have light hair on my legs, and my armpit hair grows slowly enough for me to only have to shave once every three days or so, but I’m sick of having to shave my lady bits. Why can’t it be standard to have a big ole 70s bush? Why is the trend now to not have any hair at all? Why am I the outlier because I don’t have any interest in shaving?

I digress.

I shave everything anyway, giving in to the social constructs concerning pubic hair. And listen, maybe you’re wondering why I would even bring it up, but this is _my_ story and I’m going to tell it how I want it to be told. Full disclosure.

Getting ready isn’t as arduous as it usually is – I’ve finally quit worrying about what I look like when I’m around Mark. He’s made me feel completely comfortable within the skin I’m in, never missing a chance to tell me how beautiful I am.

I’ve been complimented on my looks all my life, but something within me has always doubted the truthfulness of the praise. Family friends would tell me how much I resemble my mother, who I believe to be the most beautiful woman in the world. I grew up surrounded by beautiful people – I was just the nerdy girl who always had her face in a book. I thought that it had to be lie whenever someone claimed how beautiful I was; I knew it had to be a joke. But, for some reason, I believed Mark whenever he said it.

It’s not that I’m incredibly self-conscious. I know that I’m not a troll. But it’s never been the case for me to look in the mirror and be okay with what I see – my eyebrows are too thick, my eyes are too buggy, my forehead is too large – it’s always a battle between what I see and how I feel.

I sigh and push my hair off of my face, letting it dry naturally, the humidity causing it to be curlier than normal. I traipse into the kitchen, my sundress flowing behind me in a way that makes me feel like a Disney princess with my bare feet smacking against the hardwood. I turn the oven on, prepping for the potatoes. I figured that I would grill the steaks and asparagus out on the roof while the potatoes were cooking inside.

Quickly running into my makeshift bedroom, I spritz myself with perfume, coughing slightly when I walk into the residual scent in the air. Mark’s form fills my doorway and I scream, gripping my chest when I realize it was only him.

“Holy shit,” I breathe, crying to catch my breath. “It’s only 6:30. You scared the shit out of me!” I slap his shoulder playfully, chuckling slightly.

“Sorry,” he smiles. “My god, you look delicious,” he grabs my arm and pulls me in, kissing me square on the lips. I grin into the kiss, not realizing how much I missed being wrapped in his arms until that very moment. We had been seeing each other on a much more regular basis ever since we stamped our relationship as official, but sometimes it was difficult to match our schedules up, especially with him filming so many collaborations lately.

“Hello,” I whisper against his lips, kissing him a few times more.

“Hi,” he hugs me to his chest tightly, squeezing my ass before letting me go.

“Happy birthday!” I bat his hands away from my rear, wiggling out of his embrace to stand in front of him.

“It’s not my birthday,” he stares, dead-panned.

I giggle maniacally, squeezing his torso and kissing his chin. I continue to giggle, kissing him across his jaw, tickling his chest with my fingertips. He doesn’t move to touch me the entire time, he just stands there with a straight face.

“Oh, c'mon,” I pout against his cheek as I stand on my tip-toes to reach him.

“Don’t ruin a perfectly good evening with all of this birthday talk,” he scoffs, grabbing my face in his hands. “Let’s just forget about my birthday completely, okay?”

“No,” I shake my head, trying to smile with his hands squeezing my cheeks. “I’m going to make it up to you, whether you like it or not. And you’re going to like it.”

He sighs, giving up the fight for the moment. He kisses me on the tip of my nose before letting me go, only to swat at my ass once more as I walk back into the kitchen. I turn around and stick my tongue out at him, not hating the playfulness that we’ve begun with one another.

Atticus walks lazily over to Mark, his new best friend. When the cat mews at his feet, Mark picks him up and cradles him like the large, furry baby he is. I watch from my place at the counter as they greet each other, Mark asking how Atticus has been and Atticus bopping his head against Mark’s jaw. I smile, wondering if I’d ever be the same if I never got to feel how happy it made me to watch the two men in my life interact again.

And then, with a sudden sadness washing over me, I look down at my hands, almost ashamed for thinking such a thing. Why is it that I always have to think about the end? Especially when we were still at the very beginning of things? Why did my thoughts automatically turn to how I would feel the day Mark walked out of my life, never to be seen again?

Part of me worries that it all happened too fast – the whole labeling of our relationship, the sex, the late-night calls after he finished working for the day, his voice raspy over the phone as I laid in bed, wishing he were next to me. It happened too fast, so it was bound to crash and burn. I worried that Mark asked me to be his girlfriend simply because he felt sorry for me – sorry for how pathetic I looked, crying on his couch after my mother told me how _slightly_ disappointing I was as a daughter.

But then again, we _had_ been dating for just under three weeks. Three weeks in the books. Was anything wrong? Did Mark show any sign of leaving? Was I not the happiest I had been in years – possibly the happiest I had ever been, period?

My brain was the problem. The thought that everything has to come to an end, the notion that nothing could be good for an extended period of time without it plummeting towards failure in a horrific way. I was never good at letting things _be_ – just letting things play out how they’re supposed to; allowing myself to be in the moment and worry about the future when I got to it.

And then there was Jake. Jake, who said he was worried about meeting me. Jake, who I had trusted with the most frivolous details of my life. Why was I worried about Jake when I had Mark?

It’s just that I couldn’t let it go. I couldn’t let go of the fact that Jake didn’t want to see me; didn’t want to meet the person behind the letters, the confessions, the envelopes addressed with limited-edition stamps. I had decided, after a great deal of debating, that I would no longer reach out to Jake. If he didn’t want to meet, well, then – what was the point of writing him anymore?

After not responding to his previous letter, he sent another. It was short and to the point –

DEAR AMELIA,

IT SEEMS AS THOUGH I HAVE DONE SOMETHING TO WARRANT THE SILENT TREATMENT FROM YOU. UNLESS, OF COURSE, YOUR RESPONSE WAS LOST IN THE MAIL, WHICH HAS NEVER HAPPENED BEFORE. PLEASE FORGIVE ME FOR ASSUMING THAT YOU ARE AVOIDING ME, IF THAT IS NOT THE CASE.

IF YOU TRULY BELIEVE WE SHOULD MEET, THEN I WILL GO THROUGH WITH IT. ALTHOUGH I DON’T BELIEVE IT’S THE RIGHT THING TO DO, YOU OBVIOUSLY DO. PLEASE LET ME KNOW A TIME AND PLACE AND I WILL BE SURE TO BE THERE.

GODSPEED,

JAKE

I chose, once again, to not respond. If he was only going through with it just to appease me, I refuse to make it happen. The ridiculous notion that I would go out of my way to meet face-to-face with someone when they had zero interest in doing so made me angry, if I’m honest. I could see me arriving at a restaurant or coffee shop, only to discover he had stood me up. I would be the girl from every depiction you hated – the girl who kept ordering drinks because _He’ll be here, I promise. Just a little while longer._

It was laughable, Jake’s letter. It was the only correspondence of his that I threw away upon reading the last line.

I shake my head, trying to physically push the idiocy out of my thoughts.

 _Get yourself together, Amelia_.

“Hey,” Mark’s voice startles me as my gaze shoots from my hands to his eyes. He releases Atticus to the floor and the cat makes no effort to move away from his new companion. “What’s going on up there?” he points to his temple as he walks over to me, a concerned look pebbled in his brow.

“Oh,” I roll my eyes at the racing thoughts concealed underneath skin and bone. “Nothing.”

“You sure?” he asks.

“Yeah,” I smile, turning around to face him. He gives me a look that indicates he doesn’t believe me for a second. “I promise,” I laugh, reaching out to him.

“Okay,” he looks at me through his eyebrows and places a kiss on my bare shoulder. His stubble tickles my skin as he kisses his way up my shoulder, collarbone, and neck. I stifle a giggle after pulling him to me into a tight hug.

“I gotta put the potatoes in the oven,” I say against his chest. “And then we can go outside.”

“Outside?” Mark asks, stepping back from me.

“Outside!” I confirm, placing the tray of seasoned redskins into the oven. “Follow me!”

I take his hand and walk over to the window by my bedroom. I slide the window up and climb out, stepping back so Mark can see my display for the evening. He places both hands on the windowsill, his mouth open and eyes wide as he takes it all in. His biceps flicker underneath his skin, and it’s all I can do not to stare at the defined muscles.

“What?” I ask, and for a second, I’m almost worried that he’s mad at me.

“I didn’t even know that this was out here,” he gapes, his eyes roaming over the set-up. “You did this for me? For my birthday?”

“Yeah,” I nod and grin, beckoning him to join me on the roof.

The back half of the flower shop below me has a shorter roof than my own, which makes for a perfectly private area for entertaining. Although it’s only a small portion of the roof – maybe eight-foot wide in all – it’s comfortable enough for a small dinner party, or, in this case, a picnic for two.

I’d taken the tapestry I normally reserve for the beach and placed it on the shingles of the flat roof, creating a makeshift picnic area for the two of us. A small charcoal grill for the steaks and asparagus sat behind the blanket, heating up for our meal. Plates, silverware, and wine glasses were meticulously placed across from one another with throw cushions from my couch behind them for more comfortable seating. Small industrial strings of lights swung from one side of the roof to the other, creating a bunting of soft lighting to add to the atmosphere. Although I had strung the lights when I had first moved in (with the help of Rebecca, as I am not fond of the idea of falling to my death in an attempt to have a shabby-chic entertaining space), Mark didn’t need to know that.

Tonight was all for him, the man who had everything.

He steps out onto the roof, standing quietly against the edge of the tapestry, his eyes still wide with what seemed like confusion and gratitude. Running a hand through his hair, he lets out a mouthful of air, shaking his head.

“It’s really cool,” he laughs. “It’s really fucking cool. You did this?” he asks again, his eyes flitting to me. “You did this for me?”

“Yes,” I chuckle, carefully walking over to him. “I didn’t know what to get you, and I figured another book would be too cliché, so here ya go,” I nestled beneath his arm, placing my hand in the center of his chest. “Do you like it? Is it too much?”

“I love it,” he whispers, pulling me closer to him. “The view is awesome from up here. We can watch the sunset. We’re gonna watch the sunset, right?”

“Of course,” I smile up at him, gently touching his jawline with my fingertips. “We can do whatever you want.”

“You’re awesome,” he grabs my shoulders tightly, shaking me a little. “Did you know that? You’re so awesome.”

I scoff and bat at his biceps, diverting the attention away from me and back to the food. With Mark’s help, the steak and asparagus begin cooking on the grill. We open a bottle of red wine – some obscure brand that Rebecca had gifted to me for Christmas, and sit opposite each other while the welcomed breeze picks up around us.

While we eat, I inquire about Mark’s life on the internet, wondering how true his warnings about not revealing our relationship status could be. When I ask about previous experiences dealing with fans who could be a little too aggressive, he laughs and tells me that he could go on for hours.

“So,” I say, biting a stalk of asparagus. “You’re basically famous. My boyfriend is famous.”

“I wouldn’t say that,” he shakes his head. “It can get kind of crazy, though. I have to turn notifications off for every social media account I have, otherwise my phone will freeze up and not work for an infinite amount of time.”

“This is why I don’t have any social media,” I point my fork at him, winking one eye. Which, really, is not true at all. I know, with full confidence, that I would never be as popular as Mark is on the world wide web. Regardless, I refuse to join Facebook, Instagram, or Twitter personally and have only made accounts for the store that get updated on a daily basis – therefore, that is the extent of my knowledge when it comes to social media. And I’m keeping it that way.

“I can post a picture on Instagram and get thousands of likes within the first few seconds,” he states, raising his eyebrows in a suggestive manner.

“No,” I shake my head, not believing him for a second. The most likes any picture I’ve ever posted from the store’s account was 126. That was a good day.

“People have their notifications turned on for me,” he says, grabbing his phone out of his pocket. “Here, I’ll show you.”

He snaps a picture of the view, writing “Nothing like California in the summer” as the caption. Once the picture posts, the likes immediately flood in, along with comments that have nothing to do with the picture. I watch in awe as the popularity of the image grows, grabbing his phone to watch the insanity with a better view.

“There are so many people who want to marry you,” I glance up at him, my eyes wild with the knowledge that I was in the place where so many others could only dream of being.

“I know,” he says seriously, rolling his eyes. “It can be so exhausting. But that’s what I get for being so goddamn irresistible,” he shakes his head back, basking in the glory of my realization.

“Oh, shut up,” I laugh, going back to his phone. “I had no idea! This is crazy! You’re famous!”

Once again, he shoots the label down, claiming that he never intended to become so popular. He tells me about the livestreams, conventions, and t-shirts. I wonder if I’ll ever get used to this – this life that he is leading, this life that somehow now includes me.

But that’s the thing. It doesn’t feel like he’s this mega-popular internet star with millions of followers – _or, well, subscribers_ – and enough popularity to conduct charity events that raise thousands of dollars. It doesn’t feel like he’s has a community surrounding him, uplifting one another in times of need, always supporting him in everything he does.

No, it doesn’t feel that way. He’s simply the man in front of me who laughs at my stupid jokes, pushes my hair off of my forehead when it’s in the way of our kissing; he’s simply the man who makes my heartrate quicken whenever he smiles, whenever he says my name with that look in his eyes.

“This might be the nicest thing anyone has ever done for me,” Mark says, breaking the comfortable silence that had wrapped itself around us while we let our gaze travel over Los Angeles.

“Really?” I ask, glancing over to him. “I find that hard to believe.”

“No, really,” he says, carefully placing his wine glass on the blanket. “I’ve never had anyone put this much thought into something just for me, just for my birthday. And it’s not even my birthday.”

“Your parents never did anything big for you for your birthday?”

“No,” he shakes his head, but there’s no sadness within his words. “Birthdays aren’t a huge deal in my family. Maybe that’s why I don’t think so highly of my birthday. We celebrate them, but it’s not like we go all out – nothing like this,” he shakes his head, looking around at the set-up again.

“My mom always calls me at the exact time I was born,” I smile, recalling how she never misses a year. “She’ll call and wish me a happy birthday and then tell the story of the day I was born. I’ve heard it so many times, I can repeat it word-for-word.”

“Are your parents sentimental?”

“Totally,” I nod, sipping my wine. “Yours?”

“My dad was, yeah,” he begins, and for a second, I nearly wince at the past-tense of his words. It never ceases to jolt my system when I remember the reality of Mark’s life – we stayed up all night after we had seen a movie together, talking about everything and anything. When we got to his father, it was more so about how incredible he was, rather than how much Mark missed him. I loved that about him – how he would rather remember things for how good they were, rather than the pain that could possibly surround them. “My mom isn’t as much. I think it might be an Asian-culture thing. She’s a great mom, don’t get me wrong, but we don’t really get all that sappy about holidays and birthdays and our childhood.”

“My mom always says that the happiest time of her life was when my brother and I were growing up,” I run my fingers through my hair as a gust of wind enters our conversation. “She always tried to be the perfect mom. Decorated for every holiday, gave us little gifts and stuff like that – she made our lives something special. That all kind of stopped when my parents got divorced,” I sigh and pick at a loose thread on my dress. “I think that’s why she holds onto so much of our growing up – she feels bad because she thinks she ruined mine and my brother’s lives.”

“Do you feel that way?”

“No,” I shook my head. “I think I used to. I think I used to blame both of my parents for all of my problems – I mean, what teenager doesn’t? But, now that I’m older, I realize how much my mom tried to save their marriage. I see how much it wasn’t working out for any of us and I understand.”

“I went through the same thing,” he says. “It’s hard to understand when you’re going through it, especially if you’re young.”

And through these conversations, through these snippets of one another’s lives – the lives we lead before we found each other – we begin to know who the other is. Mark finds out things I would never tell anyone else, never indulge myself in allowing another person to know me in such a way. But, I know that my secrets are safe with him.

I know that I can tell Mark about how alone I felt growing up, how I never found my place within my group of friends. I can tell him how insignificant the ocean makes me feel, or how some of my best friends are within the pages of a book. I can tell him that I fall in and out of love with the idea of moving to Europe, or how groups of teenagers make me nervous. I can tell him all of these things without fear, without worrying that he will one day use these truths against me.

When we drift off in each other’s arms on the roof that evening, I mistake the lights above us for stars, wondering if they’ve ever felt more at home than I do in that very moment.


	11. Chapter Eleven

It wasn't easy to not respond to Jake's second letter, but I somehow managed to keep myself from writing him again. After the routine of picking up my mail, excited to see if he had written me back for the past year, it was odd to not see his familiar handwriting in my mailbox. There was an emptiness within me that I couldn't explain – that I _wouldn't_ explain – that required me to ignore it in order to go on living.

It was a death, in a way. The loss of a loved one, and I was going through the mourning process. There were days I didn't think I would be able to get out of bed, hating myself for not explaining to Jake that I had lost all interest in any communication with him.

But was that really true? _Had_ I lost interest in Jake?

It felt like betrayal on both sides of the coin – a betrayal to Jake for not explaining myself and a betrayal to Mark for not mentioning Jake's existence. It's not like I was cheating on Mark – Jake had been in the picture before Mark was even on my radar. And did it really count if Jake didn't reciprocate the feelings I had for him? Did it count if I had never even met the guy?

The only coping mechanism I had was to spend all of my free time in bed, trying my best to avoid Mark. It was painful to admit that I was feeling so desperate about a situation that wasn't even really a "situation" to begin with, but it was more painful to admit that I was acting like such a child towards someone I had such strong feelings for – someone who had been nothing but amazing to me over the past month. Mark didn't deserve that, and I certainly didn't deserve Mark.

Yet, in a way, I didn't need Jake anymore. I was certainly less lonely ever since Mark had entered my life. He would text me when he could, asking me how I was doing and that he hoped my day was going well. I could always call him if I felt particularly lonely, which rarely was the case, as I knew he would be there to answer the phone. It was difficult to feel lonely around Mark – even when he wasn't with me, he would make sure I knew he was thinking about being with me.

And, truly, that made me feel like a piece of shit. I stopped writing Jake because I now had Mark and wasn't lonely anymore. I was using both of them. Jake was a place-filler for a boyfriend, Mark was a place-filler for my loneliness.

It's no wonder I've been alone for so long. Who would want to be with me?

We had only seen each other twice since his birthday celebration on the roof, and it was now nearing August. It was a "non-relationship" relationship, as Mark had called it. He had to focus on VidCon, giving me a week without the stress of having to avoid him. It's not that I didn't want to be with him – that was the exact opposite of how I felt. I was avoiding him so that I could stay with him. If I didn't give myself the opportunity to fuck everything up, I didn't have to worry about actually fucking it up.

I searched his name. I know I shouldn't have, but I wanted to know that he was able to be happy without me _physically_ in his life, even if it was just for a week. It felt dirty, looking at all of the pictures fans had posted, watching clips of him talking on panels with his friends. It felt like I was stalking him, peeking into his world from afar, observing this piece of his life I had no connection to.

But didn't he look just so goddamn _good_? That gray sweater with the cowl neck and stripes on the biceps. The perfectly fitted jeans rolled up at the ankles, his hair gorgeously wavy. I had to stop myself from just showing up at one of his events, buying a last-minute ticket to the convention so I could watch him in his element. Maybe make eye contact with him, give him a little shock in the middle of a talk.

I could've done it. Nobody had a clue that I was his girlfriend – that I somehow got lucky enough to be the one to hold his hand, to kiss him goodnight, to know what he looked like while he was driving. I was the one who cooked dinner with him, who cuddled up to him on the couch after a long day, who had the pleasure of wearing one of his t-shirts to bed.

I didn't deserve him.

I knew I didn't deserve him the second I saw him standing outside of the restaurant on our first date. He looked just as nervous as I felt, stuffing his hands in his pockets, raising his eyebrows in a smile when he spotted me. I knew right then and there, this man was too good of a person for me – too good of a person for someone like me, who had amounted to nearly nothing within her 25 years of life.

He didn't deserve a girlfriend who may or may not be in love with someone else, someone she had never _met_. He deserved so much more, and I was not the one who could give that to him.

So, when he called to invite me over once the insanity of VidCon had passed, I was altogether excited and horrified. He would know the second he looked at me that I had done my best to avoid him for the past two and a half weeks. He would realize that no, it wasn't just that our schedules didn't align that we couldn't see each other as much as we wanted, but it was because I dodged every opportunity to see him again. He would know that I had inadvertently fucked everything up in an attempt to not fuck everything up.

_Fuck_.

I step up to the welcome mat laid out on his porch, poised to ring the doorbell. Before I can press down on the button, the door opens in a whoosh of eagerness, revealing Mark on the other side of it.

"Hi!" he grins, and for a second, I think I might cry. For being someone I had tried to avoid for the last half of the month, it was so good to see him again.

"Hi!" I say, stepping into his outstretched arms.

We hug for longer than necessary, and when he tries to let go, I hold him tighter to me, my cheek on his shoulder as I breathe him in. He chuckles, rubbing my back, allowing me to embrace him for just a little bit longer.

"Did you miss me?" he whispers, placing his palm on the back of my head.

"More than you know," I smirk, accepting his kiss.

And it's true. I did. The familiar thumping of my heart returned, that rhythm that meant so many things. So many scary, wonderful things. The second I was around him again, I knew how much I missed him, how intensely I had stopped myself from wanting to be with him out of the sheer guilt I felt because of Jake. I missed him so goddamn much, it almost hurt to be in his arms again.

"Mmm," he smiles as we pull away from one another, his eyes closed in the content way only happiness can bring. "You're all I thought about for the past three days. Not like I wasn't thinking about you before the past three days, but Jesus, I couldn't think of anything but you. _Anything_."

I smile, leaning in to kiss him again, fearing I might say something I can't take back if I don't occupy my lips with something else. He smiles into the kiss and makes a low humming noise as he laces my hair through his fingers, bringing me as close to him as I can be.

My heart begins to pound, feeling horrible because he's none the wiser, kissing me in his foyer in his bare feet and messy hair. He has no idea that I've avoided him, nor does he have a clue as to whatever the hell was going on with Jake. Or, well, _wasn't_ going on, rather.

Mark tuts, forcing himself to pull away from me once again, shaking his head. He sighs deeply, closing his eyes as if to compose himself, a chaste smile splayed across his lips.

"Did you bring your suit?"

"Wore it under my clothes," I nod, fluffing out my oversized t-shirt.

"If you want to head out to the pool, I'll go and change really quickly," he nod his head towards the sliding glass door leading out to the patio and gives me a peck on the lips before running up to his bedroom.

I smile, watching him leap up the stairs, and make my way to the pool.

Sliding the door shut behind me, I sigh in the summer heat, calming myself. Everything really _was_ going to be okay. Wasn't the way I felt when I saw him for the first time in a couple of weeks indication enough? Regardless of my feelings for Jake, I still had feelings for Mark. Strong feelings. Feelings that I could no longer ignore - that were so intense, I couldn't picture myself being happier with anyone else.

I tell myself everything will be okay, that nothing is messed up, and that I'd better _not_ mess anything up if I knew what was good for me. We had been dating for a bit at this point, and every time I voiced my concerns to Mark, he would reassure me that he had no plans of leaving. I knew, somewhere in my mind, that if I mentioned it one more time, he actually _would_ leave me. So, determined to make today one free of my neuroses, I took my t-shirt and shorts off, basking in the early-August Los Angeles sun.

I dip my toes in the pool to test its warmth and am pleased that it's slightly cooler than the air - it had been blisteringly hot lately, so having a boyfriend with an in-ground pool was a major benefit. I decide to wait until Mark joins me to jump in, knowing that he would put on a big, dramatic show if I didn't.

Hearing the door slide open, I shield my eyes from the sun while I look up from the water. Mark steps out of the house, clad his navy blue swim shorts and nothing else. My heart begins to thump once again, pittering into the familiar rhythm it sets itself into whenever I lay eyes on him. I would never get sick of looking at him, especially in this capacity.

"Hey baby," I catcall to him. "What's a fine specimen like you doing alone in a place like this?" I ask, whistling as he makes his way towards me.

"Who, me?" he asks, pointing at his chest and looking behind him. "Oh, you know. Just came for a little swimmy-swim," he struts towards me in his best model-walk, pretending to flip his hair. "No lifeguard on duty? That's okay. I brought my own flotation devices," he flexes his biceps, pointing at them with a goofy smirk.

I laugh and roll my eyes as he continues his show. When he reaches me, he wiggles his eyebrows suggestively, eyeing me up and down.

"I see you've brought your own flotation devices as well," he eyes my breasts, and then me, repeating the process a few more times before I gasp and shoo him away while he begins his full-belly laugh that I've come to love so much.

"You're ridiculous!" I yell, running away from him.

"Come back!" he laughs, chasing after me.

"No!" I giggle, running further away from him towards the deep end of the pool and jumping in just before he gets to me. My feet crash through the water, and I know my splash has hit him before I fully submerge. The cooler water of the deep end is a respite from the heat, and when I resurface, the waves from Mark's dive splash against the side of the pool.

"Babe!" Mark gasps, his head popping up to the air. "You're not supposed to run away from me!"

"I'm not?" I ask, swimming in place while he floats over to me.

"No! You're supposed to let me ogle you in your bikini," he wiggles his eyebrows once more before pulling me to him underneath the water. "What's the point in having a hot girlfriend if I can't click some mental images for the spank bank?"

"Mark Fischbach!" I shout, but my attempts at concealing my amusement fail me and I erupt with laughter while Mark laughs, too. "You're so horrible," I shake my head, my giggles dissipating.

"I'm kidding. I don't need the spank bank while I'm dating you. You're horny enough for the both of us, so I never have to go solo, as long as we're together."

I gasp once more, furrowing my brow. He laughs hysterically while I pout, my arms crossed above the water so he can see my disapproval. He shields his eyes with his palm, trying to stifle his laughter.

"It's not a bad thing!" he says between giggles.

I grunt and move to shove his head underneath the water, but he's too strong for me. Instead, he overtakes the both of us and pushes me beneath him; we both go under, Mark making sure I'm not worried he's _actually_ going to drown me by grabbing my hips and taking me up to the surface once more.

"Say you didn't mean it!" I whine, my brow still furrowed as I wipe my drenched hair away from my neck.

"Oh, I _meant it_ ," his voice deepens.

I grab onto his freckled shoulders and push down as hard as I can, but my arms are like sticks compared to his, so he ends up swimming backwards with me holding onto him instead. We carry on like this for at least another twenty minutes, wrestling in the pool as we laugh and splash one another.

"Okay, okay," I gasp, my hands up above my head while we stand in the shallow end. "I call uncle. You win."

Mark fist-pumps the air, letting me catch my breath while he catches his, a smile plastered against his face. When I'm composed, I lay back in the water and swim towards the deep end again, my legs stretched in front of me. We're silent as I float on my back and Mark swims his way towards me.

"My friends and I would always pretend that there were sharks in the deep end of any pool. We'd be mermaids and we could only swim in the deep end if we were going on special missions," I smile, remembering how vivid my imagination was as a child. "Sometimes I still feel like there are sharks in the deep end."

"The weirdest thing about that is that I do the same thing," Mark says, and when I move myself upright so I can look at him, a small smile has graced his lips. "It's obviously irrational, but I can't help it."

"Sometimes I feel like most of my life is remembering things that've already happened," I ponder, making my way over to him. "Like I'm not actually living. Instead, I'm _re_ living everything that I've been through. And then that makes me sad, because that doesn't really feel much like living."

"What's wrong with remembering?" he asks.

"It makes everything else boring in comparison," I shrug, wrapping my legs around his torso. Mark moves his hands so they're on my upper thighs and I'm contented with how easily we fall into these patterns - these patterns of two people who've been together long enough to be comfortable with such a gesture.

"Literally everything is better when you're a kid," he smiles. "But you have nothing else to compare it to, right? You haven't lived enough life to say _'Those were the days'_ or _'When I was younger'_ because you've only lived enough to care about what you're going to do the next day. All you're doing is making memories, and you don't even realize it."

"Yeah," I whisper, nodding slightly. "What's your favorite memory? As a kid, I mean."

"I don't know if I have a specific one," Mark begins. "But it would definitely involve my brother. We were always getting up to something - for the first part of our lives, we moved around a lot. You know that I was born in Hawaii, right?"

I nod, remembering how I initially thought he was of Hawaiian descent, what with his tan skin and dark features.

"For a while, all we had was each other. And even if we did have other friends, we preferred to hang out, just the two of us. We were really into going outside and pretending that our backyard was a jungle, or a warzone, or another world completely. We would stay outside from dawn until dusk, only coming back in for food. We even went to the bathroom in the woods. Nothing is better than being a young boy and peeing outside," he laughs, and I smile along with him. "I don't know. There's not really any specific part of my childhood that was my favorite. I really, _really_ loved getting to grow up the way I did."

I smile once more - not as if my smile had ever diminished - and kiss him on the cheek in response, the taste of chlorine transferring from his skin to mine.

"What was that for?" he asks.

"Just for being you," I shrug, kissing him on the opposite cheek. "I like it when we talk about our pasts, especially our childhoods. It makes me feel closer to you, I guess. Like I know you better. That's important to me, y'know?"

Mark looks at me sideways with a lightness in his eyes that I've never seen before. My heart jumps out of its rhythm and into my throat, wondering what it means. He knits his eyebrows together before kissing me twice on the lips, squeezing my hips all the while. I don't ask why, understanding that he feels the same way about disclosing information about our pasts to one another - it's like going through the filing cabinets in each other's brains, catching glimpses of everything we couldn't dream of knowing.

"Tell me _your_ favorite memory from childhood," he prompts, kissing me on the cheek.

"Hmm," I mumble, genuinely thinking about my answer. "This is going to sound stupid, but it was probably my first plane ride. My parents had gotten my brother and me tickets to go to Disney World over spring break, and I had never been on a plane before. Or to Disney World. I was only in second grade. I sat by my mom and my brother sat by my dad - I don't think they had planes with rows of three in them back then," I frown, knowing that couldn't be true. "Or maybe we just had a small plane. Anyway. Just the overall excitement I felt, knowing that we were going to be in Florida for an entire week and I was going to meet all of my favorite Disney characters. I had never even been out of state before, and here I was, flying across the country with my family."

Mark smiles at me while I babble on about the trip, his eyebrows raising and lowering in succession with my own. "We were _really_ happy that entire week. I think that's the happiest we ever were as a unit. Nobody fought, everyone agreed, and we even bought one of those underwater disposable Kodak cameras so we could take it into the pool and to the waterpark. God, that was fun," I snicker. "I held onto that week while my parents were divorcing. It helped me through, I think. Made me realize that even though our family wasn't a family anymore, we did have some really great memories when we were together. That's tough for a little girl to do, y'know? Have to keep reminding herself of how good it _was_?"

And although I know that I'm not going to cry, I still avert my eyes from Mark's gaze, just in case. He grasps my chin between his thumb and forefinger so he can move my line of sight back to him, a concerned look on his face.

"Hey," he says, and I smile at him. "You're a really good person, you know that?"

I place my forehead on his, closing my eyes. If only he knew.

"Thank you," I mutter. "But I'm really not."

"Why do you say that?" Mark asks, pulling away from me so he could look me in the eyes once more.

I debate letting it all out. Just really sabotaging the entire thing - exposing myself for the fraud that I am, letting Mark know that I've been cheating on him via snail mail and that I may or may not be in love with a man I only know through his handwriting. The only way to remedy the situation is to call the United States Postal Service and have me banned from the post for life. _No post on Sundays_? Not for Amelia! No! No post for _life._

"Because I just made you feel bad for me about my parents' divorce even though I'm so completely fine with how everything turned out," I roll my eyes, unhooking my legs from his waist. We float a handful of inches away from one another as I swipe my hand over my wet hair. "You don't need to feel sorry for me. That's literally the last thing you need right now."

"Okay," Mark says, confused. "I'm not sorry for you. Does it seem like I'm sorry for you?"

"A little."

"I'm sympathetic towards you. I went through a pretty rocky divorce with my parents, too. I can't think that you're a good person based on a story you've told me? That seems a little ridiculous, don't you think?"

I groan, but somewhat of a weight has been lifted off of my shoulders. It was only a matter of time before my own anxieties got in the way, causing a disagreement between the two of us. Might as well pack it up now, kids. Our story ends here...

"I just – I hate this. I'm so worried about screwing everything up that I've actually begun to screw things up. There was literally nothing wrong and I've made something wrong. Doesn't it feel wrong?" I ask, gesturing between us, indicating the absence of anything, well, _wrong._ My hands splash against the surface as I slap them underneath the water again.

"No," Mark shakes his head, his brow furrowed in confusion. "Amelia, what are you talking about? What is going on?"

"I'm not –" I begin, but I stop myself before continuing. What _was_ going on? "I'm not the girl you think I am. I'm not the person you deserve to be with. You deserve to be with someone who has their shit together – someone who can be good to you. I can't be good to you. I'm not good _for_ you."

"Okay, stop," he says, lifting up a hand. "Seriously, Amelia? Why do you think that? Why would you say that?"

I open my mouth to say something, but I'm at a loss for words. I can't answer that question because I don't know the answer. Why _would_ I say that?

"I get that you've been told this by other people - maybe by other guys who've hurt you before - I wouldn't actually _know_ , because you've never told me. You won't let me know that part about you. But what is it gonna take for you to realize that when you say that kind of stuff, it hurts me, too?" he floats to the edge of the pool, his back stopping against the side.

"And that's exactly what I didn't want," I say, and before I can stop them, tears fill my eyes. "I don't want to hurt you. A lot of times, I'm more trouble than I'm worth. I convince myself that you'd be happier without me and that you should just break up with me now because it'll save us both a lot of hurt," I sniffle a bit and begin to make my way towards the shallow end of the pool so I can see myself out.

"Don't you dare leave this pool," Mark's voice bellows behind me. I freeze in my tracks, the water hitting the middle of my waist. "Don't run away from me."

I turn around to face him as he swims over to me. I avert my eyes to anywhere but his face until he's standing right in front of me and I can no longer look at him.

"I've made all of these problems up, haven't I?" I shake my head at my own stupidity and choke back more tears, absolutely convinced that I'll have to say goodbye to Mark for good.

"Yes," he groans, grabbing onto my shoulders. "Amelia, what is going on? Seriously. Tell me."

"I - I don't really know. I feel like - like if you really - I don't know. I feel like if you really knew me, and knew how crazy I can be - even though you're getting a pretty good picture of that right now - that you'll leave me. Because it'd be really easy to just say _'Oh, she's nuts. Gotta move on to the next one.'_ because that's just the way things work with me."

"All right, knock it off," Mark demands, dropping his hands to his sides. My heart begins to pound in various patterns, rattling my adrenaline to the point where I feel dizzy.

This is it.

This is where _we_ end.

"Do you have any idea how much I like you?" he asks, and for a split second, I'm confused. "I've never wanted to be with someone more than I've wanted to be with you. Remember how quickly I asked you to be my girlfriend? That never happens. It usually takes me _forever_ to really begin a relationship," he gestures wildly as he talks, making my tears dissolve into a smile. "I cannot stop thinking about you, no matter what I do. I thought it would've calmed down by now, seeing how we _are_ in a relationship, but you're the only person I want to be around. Ever."

I breathe in deeply, not expecting him to say the things he does.

"When you say that shit about yourself - about being a bad person, about not being good enough for me, I don't know where that comes from. And I don't know if you realize this, but it actually reflects badly on me. If you're a bad person and I want to be around you _all of the time_ , then I must be a bad person too, right?" he raises his eyebrows at me and I smirk knowingly. "And I know that I'm not a bad person. We all have our moments, but I'm not a bad person, and _you're_ not a bad person. Okay?"

I nod, and he walks towards me, grabbing my hands so he can pull me into an embrace. "Please stop worrying about messing things up. Within the past month and a half, you've made me happier than I've been in _years_. Do you trust that? Do you trust _me_?" he kisses the crown of my head.

"Yeah," I nod against his damp chest. "I'm sorry," I say as I look up at him, a pout appearing across my lips. "I don't mean to be so anxious about everything. I just really don't want to mess this up."

"And you're not," he promises, kissing me square on the lips. "I won't let you."

I smile fully now, hugging him tight to me while he does the same. He crashes us both back down into the water with a scream from me being the last thing we hear before going under.

And, whether it's foolish of me or not, I _do_ trust Mark. I trust his words - I believe his words. When he told me not to walk away from him, when he told me to knock it off, I listened. And the whole Jake situation? Who cared anymore. I had Mark, and he was all I needed. Jake could kick rocks, as far as I was concerned. If he didn't want to meet me, then so be it.

For the rest of the evening, I replay Mark's words in my mind. I make him happy, I am a good person, and he will not let me mess this up. It's my new mantra that calms the heady worry within me, clearing some of the fog that's clouded my brain for so long.

When I wake up the next morning in his arms, I still believe everything he said. 


End file.
